Chapter 1 - Part III

                                    

                                          
THE PALE FACE STARING AT her in the mirror reminded her of Mama. She’d never seen it before, but in the black circles and the sad, red eyes, she looked like Mama. Except for the piercings and the hair. Lizzie’s buzz-cut had grown out to a boyish length. The frizzy pale pink at the tips faded to bleach blonde and dark at the roots. I need more sleep. The alarm woke her way too early.
                          
Maybe she would sleep better in her own bed. She trudged past the sign that said “This way to the asylum” on her way upstairs. The house was bigger than most of the mobile homes and trailers she spent her childhood in, but still small for a family of four. A previous owner had converted the attic into a bedroom with enough space to stand upright if you were short. That's why it was Lizzie’s room.
                          
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An Eerily quiet noon-day sun streaming in her window woke Lizzie from her dreamless sleep. No noise—alarms, angry voices, or TV—blared through the thin walls.
                          
She grabbed the cell, checking the screen. The phone was working but Mama hadn’t called. Jayce was gone. Dead. Her chest felt hollow, her eyes beaded with tears. “Jayce.”
                          
Lizzie wanted to call Mama, but it probably wouldn't do any good. Trust the nurse, Lizzie. Mama said she’d call. “But what if she forgets? Shit.”
                          
Her head no longer pounded. She felt more herself and even more alone. No people. Not even her cat, Gordito. He’d disappeared last summer—probably had gone away to die.
                          
Out of habit her hand found her cigarettes—one left. She searched for a jacket to go outside and smoke. Mama and Jerkwad had tried to get her to quit, but had done a pretty half-assed job. They both smoked, but they insisted she do it outside by Jerkwad’s illegal burn-barrel and use her own allowance. Screw it. She lit up and smoked on her bed.
                          
The cigarette helped, but her restless nerves needed activity. Lizzie could clean up, but the amount of cleaning overwhelmed her. There were piles of laundry, candy wrappers, old CDs and cases strewn all over the floor. Sheets of paper lay in stacks and on top of journals, most scribbled with song lyrics or tattooed with intricate pencil and pen art of abstract shapes, calligraphic characters and rudimentary nudes. Some of the art had made it to the walls. She’d intended to plaster over the ugly blue and green paisley wallpaper, but had only gotten partway done.
                          
Lizzie tucked the cigarette between her lips and pulled out a small burgundy velvet journal, Jayce’s birthday gift for her. She held a pen over a blank page, not knowing what to write—how to honor her brother. Her mind flitted from memory to memory.
                          
With pen in hand and only tears on the empty pages, Lizzie gave up. The cigarette she had forgotten to smoke had burned down. She ground the butt out onto one of Jerkwad’s CDs she had adopted as an ashtray, wondering if her own cigarettes were more like second-hand smoke.
                          
She could hear Jayce’s voice offering to help her organize her room. She’d thrown Dante’s Inferno at him. If she couldn’t write for him, Lizzie could at least clean up a little. She shoved the journal and pen in her pocket and started in on the mess on the floor, piling clothes and stacking similar things. Everything called up thoughts of the past. She picked up a multi-colored shoe done in permanent marker and threw it at the closet. Enough cleaning.
                          
Lizzie ran downstairs. Her hand caught the asylum sign, tearing it off the wall. She wadded it up, wishing she could go back to the past as easily as it came back to her. 
                          
                                                                             End Chapter One
                          
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