When my father said I had dramatized the situation, I shut my bedroom door because I knew my mother would agree. I lay on my bed to count the fake glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. The tiny star-shaped plastics mocked me with their weakness of false light; they did not live without the bulb.
When I saw the black flood rushed into my vision, I clutched my gray comforter. My lungs locked and my breaths faltered because why should it not?
I ran to my bathroom, my right knee scraped the floor on the process, and I opened the white box above the sink. I turned the cap and shook the small bottle. I popped my favorite vitamin in my mouth because it made me calm—it could make me breathe in a lifeless state.
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