First draft means writing without censorship or worry about how bad it will be. Lately, I write a lot of exposition and thinking and dreaming and not a whole lot of action. I think this is okay. This is a ROUGH first draft, and I can turn these ideas and thoughts into action in later drafts or just drop them if they're too wordy.
Her father’s death was responsible for her mother’s insanity and her own loss of childhood innocence. When he died, he altered the trajectory of her life, and once she was old enough to blame him, she began to see her father in places she knew he couldn't be. His face would smile out of reflective surfaces: mirrors, the toaster's metallic side, a puddle on the sidewalk, even the store windows she passed on her way to work. He'd become a part of her own reflection, and what concerned her the most was how little the idea of her dead father's face in her cereal spoon bothered her. She accepted his presence the same way another girl might accept a mole on her cheek; he was simply there whenever she looked.
Clearly, whatever it was her mother had, Chance had caught through a sneeze or one of her mother's nightmares— she too was infected with the idea that her dead father could be seen. And it was just a matter of time before she would join Stella in her conversations with the dead man, which is the biggest reason she'd taken a razor to her wrists. She’d long blamed Stella for the many ills in her life, so she might as well add schizophrenia to the list of things she shared with her, right along with the hand-me-down clothes and strange looks in the grocery store.