Day 3 cont. 7:37 PM

"Go fish."

I reached down into the pile of cards laid out on Emily's bed and chose one. Me and her were playing cards, sitting crosslegged across from eachother. Her hair kept falling in her face, and it made her look even more dead than she already did.

"Hey, Em. Come here," I said, patting the space next to me on the bed. Emily crawled over next to me softly. I told her to sit up. She obeyed. I then took the hairtie from my wrist and put her pale, white-blond hair in a ponytail. Then I turned her around so she faced me.

Emily looked so pretty. She really was a cute kid. A cute kid that doesn't deserve to be here, I thought. I ran through ideas in my head. Was she popular in school and wanted to look her best, so she starved herself? Did she get in a fight with her parents? Was she stressed out? Why...why would an eight year old stop eating?

Appearantly Emily was thinking the same things about me. Quietly, she asked, "Why are you here, Catie?" Emily spoke as if she was afraid I would be mad at her for asking. And in a way, I was. I could never lie to this girl. And what I usually did was lie when people asked me why. Why are you so skinny? Why do you look so sick?

Why are you such a freak?

~Catherine Elizabeth Duncan

Wow, thanks, guys. I appreciate it a lot. <3

Day 3 cont. 11:57 PM

She's awake. I'm awake. We both know that we're both awake too. We're both thinking about the story I just shared. The story I regret sharing with her. It's a long and it's a painful story. It's too much for an eight year old girl to handle, really. But she did...sort of, anyway. As soon as I had finished I had sent the both of us to bed, not letting her speak a word. What the hell had I done?

I was once told that writing down your feelings would help you relieve stress. I've never liked stress because mom says that's what causes pimples. Even though I don't care what these people think of me here, I don't want a face full of acne. So...here goes.

It was March 20th, 2009. I think I've mentioned that date before. I thought it was going to be the best day of my life. I had turned thirteen two months before. I had everything I wanted...a boyfriend, friends...everything except a dad. But I didn't care about that. My dad didn't care about me either, so I tried not to think about him.

My boyfriend. My boyfriend was on the high school football team, the quarterback. He was in 10th grade, I was in 8th. Damn, he was hot. And I was a loser before I got him. He claimed he loved me. He told me I was pretty. We had kissed before, even. On March 20th, 2009 I had gone to his spring football game. I ate...ugh, ate. I hate that word. Anyway, I ate A LOT that day...so much that it makes me want to barf now. Hot dogs, nachos, fries...you name it. And I was having fun. They ended up winning and I went to celebrate with my boyfriend.

He had his fifteen year old friend drive us to my house. No, stupid, of course he couldn't drive. We knew that. I'll tell you, I was not a good kid. Hung out with the wrong people. Me and my boyfriend were in the backseat....making out, pretty much. I know what you're thinking. I was too young, still am, blah blah blah. I DIDN'T CARE THEN, OKAY?! I was just glad I was cool for once in my life.

Then he started to get...aroused, I guess. You know, tried taking his shirt off, my shirt off, that kind of stuff. I refused, thinking of my mom when I did. When asked why, I told him I didn't want this. He told me of course I did; that I shouldn't be denying him because if I went through with this then I would be even more cool. As I kept refusing, I got hit with nasty comments. "Who cares about you anyway, you stupid bi*ch. You're ugly. You look like you've never heard of shampoo. You wear the stupidest things. And you're so..."

You know what he said to me?

He said "you're so f**king fat."

FAT.

I DIDN'T WANT TO BE FAT.

Not...fat.

...I'll keep going later. My hands are tired. But let me tell you, journal thingy...this story has only just begun.

~Catherine Elizabeth Duncan

Day 4(technically) 12:03 AM

So. Uh. So my boyfriend kicked me out of the car. Like, literally. They pulled over and he kicked me in the gut, sending me out the backseat door. I still have the scar from his football cleats to prove it. So I fell onto the street curb, and I let the tears run down my face for the last time. That's right-I haven't cried since.

They didn't drop me off that far from my house, and although it was raining-downpouring by now-it wasn't that difficult for me to find my way home. But when I got there, it wasn't exactly the comfort I had wanted.

When I opened the door, the smell of alcohol was distinct among the other warm smells of home. It was enough to almost send me into tears again. I coughed, then looked for my mom. I found her laid out on the couch and totally wasted.

"Mom," I had tried desperately, needing someone to talk to...a mom. "Help me."

The words she said have been played over and over in my head for the past 2 or so years. "Cat," she drawled, "You're a whiny b*tch! Don't you ever relaaaaax? You do nothin' but complaain!!" She then barfed on the carpet-Something I thought was gross then. But throwing up, it's good now.

I never responded. I ran to the phone and dialed my dad's number. "Dad," I had said, "Come get me. Daddy, I need you." I was pleading useless things.

"Catie?" My dad had asked, although I was his only daughter and the only one who called him Dad. "Uh, Catie...now's no good. Sorry." And I slammed the phone down, hanging it up.

That was the day my dad said no. The day my mom stopped drinking.

And I stopped eating.

~Catherine Elizabeth Duncan