A Storm in my Heart

Trigger Warnings: Self Harm 

Author's Note: I know, this story is really weird. There are probably thousands of stories on Reedsy like this one. But, I had no ideas, so I turned to my life and made a story based on what I've recently been experiencing… except, don't worry, this is a LOT more exaggerated. 

"Soleil." 

I hear her calling my name. Soleil. It means "sun." 

How ironic. 

I turn over, putting my head under the pillow, imaging the cloth ripping and the stuffing filling my ears so I can't hear her. 

"Soleil," she calls, louder this time. I clench my teeth, willing myself not to scream, to keep it inside. That's what I'm good at--keeping things inside. As if I have a choice. 

"SOLEIL!" This time she screams. 

I can't ignore her when she screams. I bring my head out from under the pillow and open the door, walking downstairs. Should I act angry? Sad? Or perhaps I'll make my face blank, unreadable, as if I don't care. Even though I do. 

"What?" I try not to sound rude, but I can't help it. 

My mother pokes her head out from the kitchen. "Dinner," she says. She frowns at me. "Are you okay?" 

I stiffen. "No," I spit out. I snatch the bowl she hands to me and trudge back upstairs. I ignore her soft calls and slam the door, roughly setting the bowl down on my desk. I peer at its contents--pasta. Again. 

I hate pasta. 

I hate everything. 

But my stomach is pinching with hunger, and so I pick up my fork and take a spoonful. Each bite makes me feel hungrier, emptier, and I can't understand why. 

*

When my bowl is empty, I push it away. I know the cycle. I know what comes after the anger. It's guilt. 

I should never have treated my mother like that. I know the work she goes through to put food on the table, so me and my sisters don't go hungry. How can she stand the sight of me? I'm not even pretty. I turn my head to look at the mirror nailed to my wall. My hair is stringy, cut short in a fit of rage I had last week. I was tired of cutting my skin. I wanted to cut something else. My hazel eyes are watery, tears leaking down my rough cheeks. 

My nose turns red, my mouth turns downwards. I sob. Guilty. Alone. Angry. Sad. Fearful. 

I'm broken. And I can't fix myself, no matter how hard I try. 

*

I thought staying home all the time would be fine. I thought it would be almost fun--not having to go to school, not having to be teased at by my classmates five days a week. No more park clean-ups. 

I was wrong. 

It was fine for one month. Then the next. Then I ran out of reasons to get out of bed in the morning. I dreaded going to sleep, knowing that I would just wake up to another new day. 

My name is Soleil. It means "sun." The sun is bright, big, happy, sunny. And me? 

I'm dark, like a storm. Like a hurricane, destroying everything it touches. I haven't seen the sun for ages. Not properly. Seeing a small yellow circle out a window, a sheet of glass separating me and my namesake, isn't what I want. 

I'm sick of it all. 

Some days are easy. Sometimes I can even feel a little happy. Sometimes I feel a little bit of hope that eventually this will all be over. But other days I can't bear it. 

Like today. 

*

"Soleil?" My little sister, Amanda, knocks on my door.

"Go away," I say. I take out my earphones. "I'm busy." 

"I just want to be with you," she says softly. "Please? I'm never with you anymore." She knocks on the door again. When I don't answer she bangs. 

"GO AWAY!" I shout. I hear a sob from the other side, then quiet. 

And then the guilt comes again. She only wanted to spend time with me, my littlest sister. 

I hate myself. I hate myself for hurting others. 

I feel the energy rise up in me. I need to break something. I need to hurt something. In a wild state I grab my dresser drawers, throwing out the clothes. I tear the books from my bookshelf. I dump my hamper. I pull my hair and groan. 

But I don't scream. 

I can't scream. 

People will hear me. They'll come up and try to comfort me. 

So instead I cry. Like I always do. I collapse on my bed and sob, exhausted. 

This happens almost every day. And there's nothing I can do to change it. 

*

"Numbers are going down," my father remarks. My head jerks up. 

"What?" I say. 

"Almost everyone is vaccinated," my father says. He smiles at me. "We can go out soon." 

*

One more week. It passes slowly, agonisingly. On the seventh day I'm free. Everyone else is free. 

I wake up at 6 AM. It's storming, raining hard, thunder shaking the house. But I don't care. For once I don't care. 

I run downstairs, faster than I've ever run before. My legs ache from lack of exercise, but again, I don't care. I don't freaking care. 

I push the door open. The raindrops hit my face. The fresh air flows its way into my lungs. I laugh. The grass squelches under my bare feet, tickling me. I feel my pyjamas sticking to my body like a second skin as they soak in the rainwater. 

I laugh. And then I scream. I don't care who hears me. My throat hurts from how hard I yell. And in the distance, I can hear other screams, other people screaming, letting everything out. 

And then the rain stills. I look up at the sky. Slowly, across several still minutes, the clouds part to reveal the sun. 

I can see the sun. I can feel its warmth on my skin, like a hug. A slight breeze kisses my tearstained face, drying away the sadness and regret I've kept inside of me for so long. 

I'm free.