The darkness was sufficating. There was no light anywhere. This hot summer night was completely black.

      That was an exaggeration, of course. The numbers on Rita's alarm clock glowed red in the dark, and there was a faint glow from the window, the headlights of a passing car. Also, on top of Rita's desk, a black light was turned on. However, these lights did not overcome the darkness that enveloped her life.

      Rita was awake, sitting at her desk, writing. She stood up, yawned, and sat back down. Her waist length dyed auburn hair was back in a pony tail, and she wore an oversized t-shirt and men's boxers. She glanced at the clock. Noting the time, 3:37 AM, she closed her journal and stood. She walked over to her bed, and slid her journal under her mattress next to her notebooks. She then slid underneath her black comforter and fell asleep.

      After what seemed like only a few minutes, Rita's alarm clock went off. Half asleep, she wandered into the kitchen looking for a piece of fruit to eat for breakfast. She found an apple, returned to her bedroom, and got out her journal. She sat down at the desk where she spent most of her time. She could write until her parents woke up and came to bother her about how she's "got to get out of the house and make some friends." Rita rolls her eyes, thinking of the lectures she knew so well. "Go have some fun, it's summertime!" "Go to the mall or the movies or something, be a normal teenager!" "My god, Rita, you just turned fourteen, don't you want to go to parties and stay out late?" Rita had heard these same words dozens of times, it seemed her mother could not let a week go by without asking some stupid question like "Don't you get lonely up in your room all day, with no one to talk to?" Rita rolled her eyes once again and settled down to write.

      About an hour later she heard the television be switched on, then after a few minutes, be switched off. She braced herself for the inevitable.

      "Rita, are you awake?" came the voice from downstairs. She considered not answering, but realized that would only make her mother come to her room to be sure she's all right.

      "Yes, Mother, I'm awake," Rita said with a sigh.

      "Dear, why don't you ever go out? Don't you have friends?"

      "Of course I do Mother. But I like to be alone." That was a small lie, she did like to be alone, but didn't have any friends either.

      "Rita, that's okay for now, but what are you going to do when you're older, looking for a job, and don't know how to relate to people? How are you going to communicate?"

      "Mother, please," Rita said, annoyed. The television started back up.

      "God I hate her," Rita mumbled, turning back to her journal. She picked up her pen again.

      That afternoon her mother and father had an argument. Rita guessed it was about her, and it was.

      "Bill, it's all your fault she's this way! That child has no friends, like you. She just sits in her room every day, writing in that stupid journal of hers. It's the summer, she has no school, and she hasn't stepped out of the house for days! She wouldn't have turned out this way if it hadn't been for you. All you ever do is read the newspaper and write. You weren't this way when we first met, but ever since your father....." Rita's mother, Johanna, trailed off. There is a pained look on Rita's father's face. He ignored his wife and continued to read the newspaper. Bill didn't like to yell, he knew it would only make things worse. He was a quiet man, a writer. His shoulder length sunstreaked brown hair was back in a pony tail, and he was tanned from sitting outside on the patio working on his new book.

      Rita's mother was angry. How could Bill ignore her like this? Johanna's five foot six inch frame looked small next to her husband's six feet. She shoved her hair out of her eyes. Her dark brown bob was beginning to grow out, she would have to schedule an appointment to get it cut soon.

      She turned back to Bill, who was still sitting in his overstuffed chair, reading the paper.

      "Ooh, you frustrate me!" she said angrily, stomping out of the living room.

      Meanwhile, in Rita's bedroom, she had long since given up writing in her journal, instead retreating to her walk-in closet. She often went there to lie down and be alone, when she went in that small room she could no longer hear the one-sided arguments going on downstairs. This had been her sanctuary, her place of security, since she was about 12 years old, since that event, the event that had changed her father, the event that had started all the arguing.

      Rita fell asleep in the closet, and woke up to the sound of her mother's voice yelling for her to come get some dinner, or at least eat something.

      "Yes, Mother, I'm coming," she said groggily. She stood, stretched her arms, walked out of the closet to her bedroom, and closed her journal. She carefully returned it to its place under her mattress, next to her poetry and short story notebooks.

      She went downstairs, got another apple, and once again escaped to her room, hoping she had come and gone so quickly her mother would not think to give her the usual lecture about nutrition and eating right. Hearing no voice from below, Rita ate her apple, threw away the core, and retrieved her journal and short story notebook from their hiding place.

      Rita was working on a short autobiography in her short story notebook. She hoped to someday become a professional writer like her father. She knew she had a long way to go, so she wrote every day, short stories and poetry. Rita opened her short story notebook and began to write from where she left off.

     When I turned twelve something happened that had a great effect on my personality, my outlook on life, and on my family. My paternal grandfather died in his sleep, of old age. He was my best friend. He would listen to me, he would critique my stories and poetry. He encouraged my writing. When he died I was torn apart, I refused to speak to anyone for almost a year. I wouldn't say a word. I wrote all the time, I still do. I wrote about the sadness, the pain I was feeling. Finally, after many months, I had a dream. In my dream my grandfather was saying to me, "Rita, I miss you like you miss me. I love you. But you must try to let go, you must come to life again, you must speak. If not for yourself, then for me. Have courage. Be brave. I know you can do it, you aremy wonderful intelligent granddaughter. You are young and you have spirit. You can do anything." The next morning when my mother greeted me with "Good morning, dear." to her surprise I responded, saying "Good morning, Mother." She gave me a pat on the back and said, "Finally you speak!"

      I think my father had trouble handling his father's death too. He changed, he immersed himself in his writing, he was no longer interested in going out to meet people and going to parties. Him and Mother started not getting along very well. That was when the arguing started. And it still hasn't stopped.

      My sadness from my grandfather's death has never gone away. I have been depressed since the day my grandmother's neighbor called to tell us the bad news, and to ask us if we would come and help comfort poor Grandma. We helped of course, but Grandma was never the same again. She dreaded life after Grandfather's death. Two months later she too passed away in her sleep.

      My mother and I haven't gotten along very well since then. We're totally different. She loves going to parties and social events, while I'm more like Father, I would rather sit and write or read. I have grown to dislike my mother. She simply does not understand my father or me, and does not even try. She thinks there's something qwrong with us. I think there's something wrong with her.

      I don't like this world. I don't like the hurt, the pain. I don't like the death. I don't like people that don't even make an attempt to understand me. I have only three loves- writing, my grandfather, and my father.

      My father and I don't talk very often, to each other or to anyone. We both write 24/7, and find it hard to communicate with others. And I can't even remember the last time we hugged, or touched for that matter. Same thing with my mother. In our family touching is practically taboo.

      I know my father cares about me though. He shows his affection in other ways. He's written poetry about me, and once dedicated a short story to me. I was only 4 years old, I remember I had to get him to read it to me. I still have that story, a printed copy, stapled, sitting in the top left drawer of my desk. I read it almost every day. That's how I know my father loves me.

      My greatest fear is of my parents splitting up, getting a divorce, and Father leaving me with Mother. Every time I hear them argue I'm afraid it'll be the straw that breaks the camel's back. I don't know what I would do if I had to live with Mother. I don't know if Father would want me or not. And if they both wanted me, we'd have to go through a custody battle, and courts usually give the child to the mother, right? Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not sure if Mother would want me either. She thinks Father screwed me up. What if neither of them wanted me? I don't even want to think about that....

      Rita closed her short story notebook and opened her journal.

      Mother and Father have been arguing even more than usual lately. In fact they're down there arguing right now. Their "discussions" seem to be about the same old thing- me.

      Rita went to lie down in her closet.

      The next morning when she woke up she could hear her parents arguing again. She sighed and got out her journal.

      That evening Rita's mother called her to come downstairs.

      "Coming."

      "Hi, it's been awhile since we've seen you," her mother said grimly.

      "Johanna and I have something to tell you," Bill said quietly.

      "Rita, things between your father and me haven't been going too well lately, as you may have noticed."

      Rita braced herself for the worst.

      "You're getting a divorce." This was a statement rather than a question.

      "Darling, don't be upset. Bill and I......It hasn't been working out for a long time."

      Rita looked down at the floor, refusing to meet her mother's eyes.

      "Dear, your father will move out this weekend. You'll stay here with me."

      Rita turned away from her parents and walked up the stairs to her room. She opened the door to her closet, went in, and closed the door behind her.

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