The KitKat wrapper sits motionless on the oak table. I don't care about food anymore; maybe I should just stop eating. He didn't like it when I ate too much. He said it made me look like I was a pig. I tell myself it didn’t happen. It never did.

I wasn't the one that ate that KitKat. I wish I had. I wish I could do everything he told me not to. I wish...

My sister walked through the door with just a hot pink bikini top and jean shorts on. The kitchen looks white against her evenly golden tan. Her flip flops click back and forth on the tile of the kitchen. Every time she steps her hips go left right, left right, left right. Her yellow hair sways back and forth as she steps. He liked my hair. He liked to run his fingers through it and whisper in my ear about how soft it was and how it smelled like strawberries. His breathe tickled my ear, the warm air dancing in circles.

My sister has her head phones on so loud that the sound echoes through the kitchen. I stand up. She stares. I open my mouth then close it again. I should say something; anything. I feel my eyes burn but I blink and look away. He used to say that he loved me. He loved that my eyes would slowly shut as his kisses moved from my mouth down towards my neck. He said he loved how my icy blue stare was soft and my eyelashes tickled when ever I would lean on his strong chest and blink.

I run upstairs. I run to my room. I close the closet door behind me. I try to lock him out of my mind. I feel the creeping of a sob climb up my chest and into my throat. The gasp escapes my lips like thunder in a storm. The sound erupts. His voice was like sweet chocolate melting with the beat of the sunrays on a warm summer afternoon. His kiss drops to my neck and I smile to myself in the dark. Mom didn't like him. She said he was bad. She said he just wanted girls but didn't love them. I didn't listen. I wish I did.

I open the closet door and step onto the frayed carpet. My room is messy, with clothes all over the floor and papers wadded up into little balls lying by the full trash can. I don't go in my room much. Not since the accident. My family doesn't notice. They never do. The sheets on my bed are knotted at the end of my bed like a monster trying to escape from the mattress. There is still blood on my bed. My blood.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I don't care about his warm voice, his soft skin, his thick chest. I hate him. I step on something hidden within the carpet. I pick it up. It's a thumb tack. I pick it up and place it on the bulletin board where it belongs. But where do I belong? Where should I go? I don't want to wait on a bulletin board where everyone can see me. I want to hide. Hide where I can't be seen.

I walk back to the kitchen grab an apple from the fridge and throw away the empty KitKat wrapper. I tell myself it didn't happen. It never did.