improvement? (Don't worry, it's quite short)? The story is about a girl, Anna, who has grown up believing that her mother died giving birth to her. Because of this she has a host of emotional issues. She later finds out that her mom is still alive and moved out when Anna was a young toddler. She and Anna's dad decided to convince Anna that her mom was dead so that she wouldn't ever go looking for her (I haven't figure out why, yet... Some sort of dark family secret maybe. Feel free to give suggestions if you want, it helps my brain start cranking out ideas if I can bounce them off yours). Anyway, here's the excerpt - feel free to be harsh (constructively). Thanks 
Today, more than any other day of the year, the voice of my reality refused to be silent. It screamed at me from inside my head, pounding its fists against my skull and repeating, “You are responsible for this.” I knew it. We all did. No matter how many times my father tried to evade the issue and assure me that this wasn’t my fault, the facts spoke for themselves. My life—my existence in this world—had been, from day one, a substitution for somebody else’s. If I weren’t here, my mother would still be alive. And that was the cold, hard truth.
My fingers clutched the edges of the old bath tub, seeking something tangible. I inhaled deeply, holding my breath as I lowered my head into the stale water. I opened my eyes and watched my dark brown hair swirl around me. The sound of my heartbeat underwater muffled the voice in my head, if only for a few moments. But it wasn’t enough; relief never came. I was still conscious. I was still living. As long as I were alive, I would be haunted by the past. It was something that, even after seventeen years of life and seventeen days exactly like this one, I had not been quite able to accept.
Happy Mother’s Day, I thought, and I began to drift.
Today, more than any other day of the year, the voice of my reality refused to be silent. It screamed at me from inside my head, pounding its fists against my skull and repeating, “You are responsible for this.” I knew it. We all did. No matter how many times my father tried to evade the issue and assure me that this wasn’t my fault, the facts spoke for themselves. My life—my existence in this world—had been, from day one, a substitution for somebody else’s. If I weren’t here, my mother would still be alive. And that was the cold, hard truth.
My fingers clutched the edges of the old bath tub, seeking something tangible. I inhaled deeply, holding my breath as I lowered my head into the stale water. I opened my eyes and watched my dark brown hair swirl around me. The sound of my heartbeat underwater muffled the voice in my head, if only for a few moments. But it wasn’t enough; relief never came. I was still conscious. I was still living. As long as I were alive, I would be haunted by the past. It was something that, even after seventeen years of life and seventeen days exactly like this one, I had not been quite able to accept.
Happy Mother’s Day, I thought, and I began to drift.