The bigger of two bedrooms on the second floor of a townhouse belongs to one girl. An unmade bed with a dark wood headboeard lays next to the window with dirty white blinds. The girl lays on her bed, with her laptop in front of her and a book by her side. The silver, cubic radio that rests on her glass bedside table plays the latest songs on her hometown's only rock station.
Across the room, the white door with a painted over butterfly opens to reveal her mother.
"I just got off the phone with your Dad. He can't come to the ceremony next week," her mother says and closes the door once again. The girl rolls her eyes, then gets up off of her bed and walks over to her dark wood dresser beside her door. From the small, top, left side drawer full of junk, she pulls out a packet of matches. A single match sparks and bursts into flame, as she touches the end to the six unused candles sitting on top the jewelry box over her dresser.
Once the candles are lit, she turns to the left, hops up on the white chair against the wall perpendicular to the dresser to face her Angry Little Girls calendar and marks off another day. Then turning right to face the tall white bookcase crammed in the corner between the dresser and chair, she reaches up to the top shelf to pull down one of the many journals, diaries, and notebooks she's kept since the third grade.
She takes out her most current journal and begins to write.

"Hey, it's happened again..." she begins and keeps on writing...