Today is a new day.

I know I already said that, but whatever. It's a new day, after all. I don't know why I'm so happy today, I just feel like something amazing is going to happen, and I haven't felt such warm feelings much since Mom died.

I'm starting to wonder if I have that weird superstitious sense that she had. I have to admit, whenever she predicted the mood of the day, she was always spot-on. It was kind of eerie, actually, especially when she had that awful feeling the day of the car accident.

Nevertheless, I'm going to try to make the most of this day. Most of the time, I wake up and everything is terrible. The covers are so inviting; I'm tempted to stay bundled up in them forever. I don't want to open the bedroom door. I don't want to see my ugly reflection in the mirror. I don't want to point out my imperfections, to stare at the acne filling my face or the unruliness of my fluffy black curls. I most certainly don't want to greet my father, who is probably shooting up heroin in the bathroom, because those injections are all he thinks about nowadays. It doesn't even faze him when I accidentally open the bathroom door and see it all.

But today is a new day.

They come and go - occasional bouts of happiness that'll make me feel more like "myself" again. Does being happy make you yourself, or does it just hide the real you, covering up the cracks with artificial smiles?

At least I haven't tried jumping off the creek bridge again.

When I was young, my father and I would go fishing by the creek bridge. Afterward we would drive back into town and order two cones of mint chocolate chip ice cream. My lactose intolerance had not kicked in yet so I could still eat every bite of those delicious scoops. When we got home, my mom would plant a big, wet kiss on my father and say she could taste the sweet mint on his lips while I told her about all the fish we caught by the creek bridge.

The bridge is still painted the same deep crimson red, although the paint is chipping and it looks despondent now. All I can remember is the feel of the dirty murky water zapping me with its chilly ice-cold touch as I sunk deeper and deeper, hoping nobody would try to save me, letting the weights in my shoes carry me down, down, down.

The weirdest part is, nobody did. I just happened to float back up to the top. It was the oddest thing. I know I should have died. I know my life was over the moment I hit that water. I had accepted my fate. I had chosen to drown in that choppy lake. It had been raining that day, pouring angel's tears, the loudest and chilliest rain imaginable. The water level was steadily rising, and I knew that nobody would be able to see me in that murky water as it sloshed back and forth, hitting the rocks with a loud crash every few seconds. Yet I still made my way up to the top. I thought my tether had been cut. I thought life had finally let me go. For months I had been tossed and torn, told that life would get better eventually. That was everyone's solution.

"Things will turn-up eventually." "You'll cheer up eventually." "It'll hurt less eventually."

Except life was not getting better, and I was tired of waiting for eventually. It seemed like things were getting worse. Life was taking control of me, throwing me down and tearing me apart. I wanted to get rid of its control, wanted it to let go of me. I thought I could make myself free. I thought I could get away, but I was wrong. Life yanked me back. I was a helpless marionette, and life was the puppeteer, deviously playing with me, tossing me aside when it got bored.

Maybe it wasn't life that brought me back. Maybe it was Mom, though, at the time, I hadn't seen her ghost yet. It wasn't until later that I got to see her materialize before me. She always told me that there were others watching over me, others who knew I had potential and that my time was not up. I think, when she spoke about those others, she always meant my grandpa. I was so close to him before he died. A tragic stroke left him in the hospital for weeks, where he lied there, my mom always beside him. She kept him company because she was the only person left for him. I would go to school, and afterward, go to the hospital to see him. I would cry at his bedside; tell him how much I loved him. I would read him Bible verses and my mom would sing him little hymns. I think he put up a fight like no other, but it was not enough.

When he died, the first ounce of my mom's life disappeared. A part of her artistic glow dimmed. She sang less, spoke less, and slept more. She was never the same after he left. Then, when things were finally getting better, when she was singing louder than she had in months, when she was making dinner almost every night, when she went salsa dancing with my father and played board games with me, she met the same fate as Grandpa, trapped in that sickly hospital room. The puppeteer had cut her away string by string, snapping away each one until she came crashing down, leaving me behind.

Perhaps it was my mom who saved me that night. Yet what greater purpose do I have? What am I going to do with my life? Why did she save me?

***

I decided not to go out to the forest today. I felt like I was supposed to stay indoors. I left my bedroom a few times, once to grab an apple and water, once to take a piss, and once to grab a book. I have this giant bookcase outside my bedroom. It was originally my mom's, but she offered to share it with me when she saw how much I enjoyed reading. Usually I hardly even glance at the bookcase, but on good days, I find myself interested in picking up a paperback. There are all sorts of options, many birthday and Christmas presents I so shamelessly forgot about after she died. Others are hers, various classics, which I was supposed to read for school. Last year we read The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, 1984, and Pride & Prejudice. No surprise, my Mom had a copy of every one in her magical bookshelf of endless proportions, but I didn't bother picking up any of them when the time came. I think I got Cs on all the tests, and that was only because I chose to read Sparknotes every now and then.

I feel bad now, knowing that I blew off all that reading. Before Mom died, I would've been more than happy to read each and every one of those books. Most days I don't have it in me to put in the effort, even for English class. But, since today is supposed to be a happy day, and I have this spring in my step that I haven't felt in a long time, I decide to grab The Great Gatsby and read a bit of it, knowing it was one of my mom's absolute favorites.

I go back into my bedroom and prop the chair for my desk in front of the window, using the natural light to help me see the pages better. I pull out my cell phone and scroll through my music, something I haven't done in the past week or so. Usually, I don't have the desire to listen to music anymore, but every once in a while, I feel like humming along.

As I open the first page, I play some of my older favorites from when I was younger, ones my parents and I would listen to in the car. I still know all the words to "Telephone" by Lady Gaga and Beyoncé. I let it play, because sometimes you just need a little bit of Lady Gaga in your life to get by.

Before I can begin reading, I hear a beeping sound, like a truck backing up. I look out the window, and sure enough, there is a moving truck backing into the driveway of the house right across from mine. I can't believe that somebody has actually moved into the old Nelson house, which has been vacant almost as long as Mom has been gone. I set the book down and turn off the music, unable to concentrate on anything now but who is going to be my new next-door neighbor.

I know I'm the only one here, so I don't have to worry about my father walking in on me stalking the new neighbors. I just cannot help myself! Maybe this is the amazing thing that is supposed to happen today? Of all the things that could have happened, new neighbors! This could be something of epic proportions or something terrible. Only time will tell. If only somebody would get out of the giant U-Haul!

And then, I see him.