Isabela Part 2

It’s the only thing I’ll have left of him. And I know Nate doesn’t deserve my feelings, but I still can’t kill them. I wish I could suffocate them with rage, revolt, indignation. But I can’t. This love is too powerful to die all of a sudden.
I grab a box of razor blades and put it in a small basket. My eyes are so heavy, and tears flow endlessly, to the point that I can barely lift my eyelids. My phone keeps ringing incessantly.
Wandering aimlessly down the aisles, looking like a lost drifter, I find myself facing a pile of hair dye boxes. There are so many colors...
He doesn’t love you!
I hate him back!
I try to ignore the monsters screaming in my mind, but there’s so much rage vibrating with the blood coursing through my veins that I grab three boxes of the first shade in front of me. It’s a vibrant red, the color of anger!
“I’ll sweep your traces from my body, you son of a bitch! If I have to go on without you, you won’t keep living on my skin!” I scream, throwing the basket onto the counter.
I don’t care about the shocked, green-eyed stare of the girl behind the register as she sees me looking like a madwoman. I don’t give a damn! I’m busy trying to expel that jerk from my being.
I’m going to cover this damn blonde in my hair. I will never again look in the mirror and remember him or the fucked-up nickname he gave me. I’ll kill the girl Nate fell in love with, and I’ll transform into a worse bitch than he is. My new version will never start a blog, but she will be capable of being cruel to everyone who tries to screw me over.
Fuck it all!
It’s time for everything to change!
I throw two hundred-dollar bills on the counter and don’t wait for change. I grab a cab home. My life will always be one big disaster. I don’t know how I ever believed there would be something good for me in this world. Nothing will ever be happy. I should have accepted that by now.
The car stops in front of the house that surely boasts a portal straight to hell. When I walk through the living room door, I see my mother pacing back and forth on the carpet, crying as she smooths her hair. She looks desperate. My mind is so clouded, my eyes so watery that I can’t even see what she’s wearing.
Her brown eyes land on me, widening in surprise. For the first time in so many years, she looks happy to see me.
“Daughter!” She seems relieved when she runs over and touches my face before hugging me.
She doesn’t seem like the devil. In fact, she now seems like a mother. But I don’t want her false affection. Diana is partly responsible for every time the siren call—my wrists begging to be cut—echoes in my mind.
“What the hell happened?” I ask, pulling away from her touch.
I’m fed up with this shitty family too!
“Where have you been, huh? Marcos just went to the police to look for you! Your grandmother said you left her house early to meet your boyfriend, and neither of you has given any news.” She trails behind me as I walk toward my room.
“Don’t worry, Mommy, I don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” I warn, only poking my head out of the door. I step into the room, throwing Nate’s bat on my bed. Diana, not willing to give up, follows me inside. “You’re not going to hit me, are you? I’d trade anything for a good beating right now.”
I open my arms as if inviting her. My mother furrows her brow and then hugs herself. I think she can see the result of all the shit she’s been chiseling away at for years. Can Diana see my head crumbling? How much I’m becoming like her and her husband?
“Did you make that website talking bad about your boyfriend and your classmates? Is that why the little punk left you?” she asks, smoothing her chest as if trying to soothe some pain. “Marcos pulled his record, Isabela. He discovered that this Nate Dumont Kimura is a real troublemaker. And he’s trying to finish the boy off.” Her voice is low, fearful, as if she’s sharing a secret she herself is scared to confess. “Your stepfather is even angrier that you’ve been suspended from school. The principal called and said she’s investigating the blog, which, by the way, was deleted just a few hours ago. Your boyfriend was expelled after confessing to vandalizing the bathroom months ago. Anyway, I think...”—My mother swallows hard, and my gaze at her is fiery. I don’t care that Nate was expelled. He probably doesn’t give a damn about it either. The bastard was already leaving anyway.—“I think it’s not a good idea for you to stay home today. I’ll go tell Marcos you’re safe. Before I leave, I’ll ask the driver to take you to your grandmother’s.”

" You don’t have to pretend to be worried about your husband being violent with me, Mom. I want to get beaten. Let the pedophile come at me with everything. I hope he’s really cruel today, that I finally die and it’s all over — I say, smiling so wildly that Diana’s eyes become a spring. I hate this version of a fragile mommy. If she liked me, she’d run away with me far away. — And stop pretending to care. You hate me. You’re a shitty narcissist who’s always preferred a dick to her own daughter!
" What’s with that mouth, Isabela? — she growls, smoothing her hair so she doesn’t come and beat me up. — Stop talking back to me and go to your grandmother’s house right now, come on!
" No! And get used to it, Mom. From today on, I’ll be the ideal daughter: a mirror image of you and my fake “daddy,” who, by the way, is a huge pervert — I mock, turning my back on her and going to the bathroom. — And there's more, Diana: — I look over my shoulder, over the threshold of the door. My mother is stunned, a little red with anger, but silent, waiting — You or your husband will never be able to order me around again. I'm not afraid, nor do I have anything to lose. I've already lost everything, damn it. Everything! And if your shitty husband wants to threaten Hellen, let him do it. When he no longer has her to bargain with, what will he use? You?
I go into the bathroom and slam the door in her face. I ignore the way she cries, or screams, reminding myself of when I released my dark side while Nate was leaving. I throw myself into the shower stall, turning the drugstore bag over and throwing all the contents onto the floor.
I open one of the paint boxes and read the instructions on how to use the dye. I can hear the roar of my mother's car engine getting further away. It's amazing how I can distinguish the noise of her car from that of her husband. I stand for a few minutes with my head resting against the wall, wondering if I should feed these ghosts whispering in my head, telling me that I should finally allow myself to end it all. When I put all the weights on the scale, I see that there is nothing left for me to hold on to.
Why should I still preserve my skin, fight to keep myself intact? I am already torn apart. In fact, it has been a long time since I was whole.