jesus christ she's perfect

Chapter 1: This Is Just the Start

Read the prologue


Song- “Where Is My Mind” by Maxence Cyrin

The First Day

July 2nd, 10:54 PM

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m going to need you to strip down to your bra and underwear for me.”

I give a sideways glance to the old, ragged lady standing in front of me holding a pen and a sheet of paper with a crude sketch of the human body on it. The room I’m standing in in New Hope Wellness Facility (a.k.a.- the cheesiest and most cringe worthy name for a mental health facility on the planet) is cold and desolate; only a grey cot with a paper liner covering it and a small sink crouched under a medicine cabinet share the space with the two of us. The crude florescent light beams down, bounces off the bare walls, and assaults my pupils, forcing me to squint until the skin of my eyelids block out enough light to focus on her face. I assume that I’m in the medical room of the unit, but the last thing I would ever want is to lay back on that cot and let someone probe and examine me. I’ll attempt suicide a thousand more times before I let that happen.

“This is just protocol for all of our new patients, Katrina. We have to strip you down to make sure you’re not hiding any drugs, alcohol, or weapons in your clothes or undergarments.”

“So, what’s with the sketch, then?” Sandpaper sits in between my vocal cords and I pull my ratty sweatshirt closer to my body, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed.

“Once I ensure you’re not trying to smuggle anything in here, I have to circle all of the places on your body that you’ve cut or harmed. None of this is going to be held against you, sweetheart. This is all just going in your file for the psychiatrist to look at before she begins your evaluation.”

“I still don’t want to take my clothes off.”

“I know, but you have to. I will make it quick, I promise. Fighting this is only going to make it worse.”

I sigh heavily and rip my clothes off at lightning speed, wanting nothing more than to get this over with as fast as possible. The lady makes me hold my arms out to the side as if I’m being crucified and begins to rotate me slowly in a circle, making notes of all the places the emergency room nurse covered the crimson-colored craters I’ve etched into my skin.

“Can I ask how you ended up in here?” Her voice sounds faint and far away while she concentrates on making sure she marks her paper correctly. I eye her as she makes big red circles on the backs of the thighs, on the calves, shins, tops of the feet, back of the heels, front of the thighs, hipbones… Huh, she’s using a red pen. How ironic.

I clear my throat. Vertigo begins to take over me and I reach out to grab the cot for support.

“I, um, I thought I was going to kill myself,” I squeak, carefully leaving out the detail of the voices telling me to do so. “I called 911 to get myself out of danger.”

The woman stops circling both sides of the ribs mid-mark and looks up at me through her silver eyelashes.

“Well, that’s a first.”

“Excuse me?”

She gently takes my wrists in her hands and moves my arms in front of my body, careful not to dig her fingernails into my torn-up flesh. I’m sure I look reminiscent of a zombie, and to say I feel like one would be the understatement of the year.

“Everyone who ends up in here usually wants to die. You’re the first patient I’ve checked in who landed here because they chose to fight for their life, not end it.” She shrugs indifferently before placing my arms down by my sides and moving my incredibly long, black hair behind my shoulder to look at my neck.

“But I didn’t ask to end up here, you know,” I breathe.

“I know, Katrina. No one does. But, at least you’re not mandated by a court to be here. You can sign yourself out anytime you’d like.” The woman places larges circles around the left arm and both sides of the neck on the diagram.

I shift my weight between my bare feet. “Are there people here who are court mandated?”

“I’m legally not allowed to say, but you’re number three of three patients on this unit as of tonight. It shouldn’t be that difficult to weasel some information out of the other kids here.”

What in the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Alright… You don’t have any illicit or recreational drugs on you, correct?”

I tightly wrap my arms around my almost-nude body and stare at the floor. “That’s correct.”

“No alcohol of any kind?”

I fucking wish.

“No.”

“Do you hold in your possession any over-the-counter medicine that when used incorrectly could bring about a state of intoxication?”

“No.”

“And you do understand that lying about obtaining any of these substances can and will result in a search and seizure of your property by police, an arrest warrant in your name, a fine of up to $250,000, and a potential stay of up to ten years in a federal prison?”

Jesus Christ, is this woman serious?

“Yes, I understand.”

“Perfect.”

She winks at me before capping her pen and placing the diagram inside a manila folder with my name scribbled on the front of it. I throw my sweatshirt back on my body, and as I’m working my leggings up my thighs, her voice catches my attention.

“Hey, Katrina?”

“Yeah?”

“Changing all of that gauze daily might be a nuisance since there’s so much of it, but it will help speed up the healing process of those cuts. And, between you and me, aloe and some Benadryl should keep with itching at bay.”

“Where do I get Benadryl?”

“The psychiatrist will have to mark it on your prescription card for the pharmacy to fill, but if you ask her for some when you talk to her tomorrow, it shouldn’t be an issue. I don’t see why she would object to giving you a small teaspoon every day while you’re here. Her name is Dr. Lawson, but everyone around her just calls her Jennifer.”

Jennifer… Her name rolls around in my head as I snap my waistband on my stomach. Tension that I didn’t even know I had releases itself from my shoulders and I smile at the woman.

“Thank you.” The volume of my voice shrinks down to match how small I feel after standing almost naked in front of someone for so long. I never want to take my clothes off for anyone ever again.

“Just get better, okay?”

I follow the woman out of the medical room and see her swipe her employee I.D. on a keypad to disappear behind a set of industrial double doors close by. I stand there, frozen, watching her through the small rectangular window until her she turns right behind a corner and her shadow fades from view. I know I wasn’t supposed to follow her, but now what do I do?

“Katrina?”

My mom’s voice fills the air and I make a 180 degree turn to find her still leaning against the nurses’ desk in the middle of the hallway, in exactly the same spot I left her before being ushered into the exam room. After calling her in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and leaving a voicemail explaining to her that I was feeling suicidal (again, actively choosing to leave out the part about the voices), she met me in the emergency room, crying and frantic. My mom, as much as she refuses to admit it, always has had a flair for the dramatic, and no matter how much I tried to convince her that I was safest there, that they had patched me up and found me a place to go for a couple of days until I was sure I wouldn’t do something like this to myself again, she wouldn’t sit still or calm down until the doctors spoke to her directly. She spent hours sobbing over the brochures of the facility the nurse gave her and didn’t let go of my hand the entire hour and fifteen-minute drive from the hospital to the facility, much to my dismay. Now, after signing insurance forms and receiving discharge information for when I leave in a couple of days, she loiters around and hovers over me, just like she’s done for the last nineteen years of my life.

“Mom? I thought you would have been gone by now. It’s going to be after midnight when you get back.”

“Katrina, I’m not going to leave without saying goodbye.”

“It’s not ‘goodbye,’ Mom. It’s 'see you later.’ You’ll have gone more time without seeing me while I was at school this year than you will these next couple of days.”

“I know, but this is different.”

“Why? Because you can’t convince yourself that I’m going to be okay this time? News flash, Mom: I haven’t been okay in a long time.” The bitterness in my voice slices through the air and I catch a couple of nurses sitting behind the desk wince at my words. Have they been here since I showed up? Why am I just now noticing them?

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Mom’s voice raises an octave and she lifts herself off of the desk to face me directly. “Who was the one who dragged your ass to therapy every damn week for the last ten years? Who was the one who administered your medicine to you every single day until you refused to keep taking it? Who’s the one paying for you to be here right now?”

I look down at the white slip-on Vans covering my feet and inhale sharply, working like a madman to keep the anger suddenly building up inside my chest from exploding. I don’t want to hurt my mom again. Not here. Not now.

“I think you should go now, Mom.”

“I’m not leaving here without a hug, Katrina.”

“A hug my ass,” I mutter under my breath.

“Excuse me?” Mom reaches out for my chin and shifts my head upward until I’m meeting her gaze. Her touch sends bugs crawling across my skin and I shriek at the sensation, my voice high and shrill. I violently grab Mom’s wrist and throw her hand off of my body in an attempt to rid of the insects, but even when her touch leaves me, the bugs do not. They pitter patter, pitter patter their way over me, wedge their way under my clothes and into my shoes, and I begin a dance of desperation to try and shake them off.

“Oh god, Katrina. Not this again,” Mom snaps, unamused, rubbing her sore shoulder as if I took to her joint with a baseball bat.

“Get them off of me! Get them off, GET THEM OFF!” I begin stripping myself as a short nurse with blonde hair and red scrubs rounds the corner of the nurses’ desk and assumes a fighting stance in front of me.

“Katrina? Hey, Katrina, sweetheart, can you tell me what’s wrong? What’s on you that you need to get rid of?” Her voice is gentle, soft, and as I look into her baby blue eyes framed by mascara-coated eyelashes, I know she’s not here to hurt me. My adrenaline continues to pump through my body, though, and as I kick my shoes off and do a spin, my gaze finds my mother, who is staring at me unfazed.

“The bugs! Mom touched me without my permission and now the bugs ARE BACK. DON’T TOUCH ME UNLESS I SAY IT’S OKAY, BECAUSE IF YOU DO, THE BUGS WILL COME BACK!”

“Okay Katrina, I can get you some medicine to make the bugs go away, but you’ll need to keep your clothes on for me. Do you mind going into the rec room and sitting on the couch until I come back? Janet can sit with you while you wait if you would like.”

Blondie motions toward an overweight nurse with bad highlights standing behind the station and I nod, jumping and leaping down the hall before entering a door directly to the right of the nurses’ desk. I struggle to find the light switch and flop onto the brown leather couch. Janet follows close behind, pulling up a chair from a round table in the opposite corner and placing it next to me. I wiggle and writhe in my spot as the bugs begin nipping at my skin, leaving sores under my gauze pads. Janet watches me suffer silently while chewing on some dead skin on her bottom lip, and I can’t believe I’m here, my shit show acting as entertainment for the employees of this god forsaken mental facility.

“Janet, just so you know, I’m not crazy,” I grumble, clawing at the bare skin I have left, the little skin that was spared from my blades and from the medical work of the emergency room nurse.

“Katrina, no one here thinks you’re crazy. If we were worried about your psyche, you wouldn’t have been placed on this floor.”

“No, I mean I know that there aren’t actually bugs on my skin, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like there are.”

Janet scoots her chair a hair closer to me and cocks her head to the side. “Really? Do you know what causes he bugs to appear?”

I nod. “Unwarranted touch. I don’t let people touch me without my permission.” My words are blunt, harsh, and I focus on articulating each syllable to perfection in a lame attempt to take my mind off of the pain.

“And Mom didn’t listen to you?”

“She never listens to me when it comes to that stuff. She always wants a hug, always wants a kiss, always wants to hold my hand, and I get that I’m her firstborn and that she doesn’t know how to help me anymore, but I don’t know how ignoring everything I ask her to do or not to do makes any sense at all… Damn it, WHERE IS THAT MEDICINE?!”

As if on cue, Blondie rounds the corner with a handful of airtight baggies and a syringe filled with a clear, jelly-like substance.

“You’re going to shoot me up with that stuff?” I raise my eyebrows at her as she begins to unwrap all of the plastic.

“It’s just some good, old fashioned Benadryl, but it’s prepped for an IV rather than as an oral medication.”

I squirm around in my seat, unable to follow her train of thought.

“But, I don’t have an IV in.”

“Yet,” Blondie says as she holds up one of the baggies with a little shake. “I’m going to put the needle in and leave it overnight, just in case Jennifer wants any of your medicine administered intravenously tomorrow, okay? If she doesn’t, one of the day nurses will take it out first thing after your evaluation.”

“Ugh, okay. Can we just get this in my system so I can feel NORMAL AGAIN?”

“Yep, it’s all ready. I just need you to stay still for me so I put in correctly. Do you need Janet to hold your arm down?”

Janet looks at me nervously and I soften, mouthing the words “it’s okay” before scooting up to the edge of the couch cushion. She places a large hand on my forearm as Blondie pulls on some latex gloves and disinfects the inside of my elbow with an alcohol pad. I take a deep breath, secretly craving the sensation of a sharp object piercing my skin. My eyes close as I feel the tingle of the needle entering my vein, desperately trying to stop the twisted smile from creeping onto my face.

“Good, Katrina. That slid right in. Now, this Benadryl might make you feel loopy and tired, but as soon as I inject this, I’ll show you to your room and we can get your bed set up so you can sleep for the evening, okay?”

“Like that will happen,” I snort. “I’ve intentionally overdosed on hydrocodone so many times that my liver metabolizes medicine before it even absorbs in my system. You’re going to need to inject me with my body weight in Benadryl before it knocks me out.”

Damn it, Katrina, stop talking. Quit spitting out your woes to the first person that’s willing to listen. You’ll sound like a nut job, or worse, a charity case.

Blondie places the needle of the syringe into the small blue tube attached to my IV and presses down on it slowly. I watch, entranced, as the liquid transfers from the syringe and disappears under my ghastly, paper-like skin. The area where the IV is inserted begins to warm and the sensation of pins and needles consumes by body, but my brain remains alert and my eyes don’t tire. The bugs immediately begin to die and fall off of me onto the floor one by one until my feet are surrounded with exoskeletons. I exhale dramatically.

“How does that feel, Katrina?”

“Better. Normal.” I lick my lips nervously and look at Janet, then at Blondie. “Thank you for helping me. I’m sorry I panicked on you guys.”

Blondie caps the small blue tube and adheres it to my skin with clear medical tape before reaching her hands out to help me off the couch. I decline her offer and stand up on my own, careful not to step on any of the dead bugs.

“Katrina, that’s our job. It’s what were here for.” Janet smiles softly as the three of us pad out of the rec room and back into the hallway. I glance around for Mom, but no sign of her can be found anywhere. Maybe she finally got the hint and left.

Guilt washes over me now that I’m medicated and stable again. All she wanted was to say goodbye and I wouldn’t give that to her. What a piece of shit daughter I am.

“Okay, Katrina, ready to find your room?” Blondie reaches behind the nurses’ desk and grabs a lanyard heavy with metal keys. I shrug and grab my bags that have been sitting atop the surface of the desk since I arrived and follow suit behind her down the hall opposite to that of the rec room and medical room. She stops at the second door to the left and I glance around, taking note that only two of the doors down the hall have names written on the whiteboards plastered on the doorframe. The room directly next to mine has Stephanie scribbled in stark handwriting, and the room adjacent and across the hall to me has a name sprawled in cursive so swift that I have to squint to make out the name: Grayson.

God help me if there is a boy living on this floor with me for the next week. I will cut his balls off in his sleep if he dares to even get within arm’s length of me.

Blondie messes with the lock, and eventually with a huff, swings the heavy wooden door open. She flips the light switch to the left of the doorframe and I’m greeted with an underwhelming sight: two twin-sized mattresses with small wooden bedframes beds sit inches apart from each other on a white tiled floor. In front of the beds to my left is the bathroom, which consists of nothing more than a shoebox of a shower, a dingy toilet, and a single vanity with a large mirror positioned above it. Opposite of the bathroom door is a large shelf of cubbies mounted to the wall, each about two feet by two feet in size. The rest of the room is barren, the light blue walls screaming for some kind of decoration or artwork to be placed upon them. I feel my shoulders drop as I walk to place my bags on the bed closest to the door. I had hoped it would at least be better than prison. Maybe I was wrong.

“Alright, Katrina, here’s your home-sweet-home for the next five days.” Blondie’s voice startles me out of my thoughts and I pull the cuffs of my sweatshirt sleeves past my fingertips before plopping on the mattress next to my belongings.

“Just a couple of housekeeping rules for you to remember: The water temperature in all of the faucets are controlled by an outside heating source, so don’t expect your showers to be anything more than lukewarm at best–”

“I’m sorry?” I raise my eyebrows.

“We can’t have patients intentionally trying to burn themselves while they’re staying here, Katrina. It’s a safety precaution.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“It’s also a safety precaution that we go through all of the belongings you brought with before you claim them, so don’t expect to find any shoelaces in your shoes or strings in your elastic waistbands. They’ve have all been removed. We’ve also taken your shaving razors, any hot tools you would use to style your hair with, and all makeup products. Those aren’t allowed during your treatment, but you’ll get everything back before you’re discharged. We didn’t get rid of anything. We’re just holding onto it.”

Woah, wait a second.

“I’m sorry… I understand taking the shaving razors and my flat iron, but why my makeup?”

Blondie sighs and leans against the door frame, crossing one leg over the other at her ankle. “We see more people with addiction than you’d be able to fathom, Katrina. When they’re detoxing and they’re desperate for any kind of fix, they’ll smash up eye shadow palettes and eyeliner and snort it just to feel something. We can’t take any chances.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t end up in here because of drugs, for God’s sake.” My jaw is clenched so tightly that my teeth grind together as I spit the words out.

“We can’t pick and choose who the rules apply to, sweetheart.”

I shove my hands in between my thighs and dig my fingernails into my flesh, using the pain as a distraction from the anger brewing in the pit of my stomach. They went through my shit without my permission?! They’re thieves. Thieves! They could have stolen anything they wanted and I would never know.

“Okay, so, we don’t have a daily cleaning service, which means you’re expected to keep your room neat for the duration of your treatment,” she continues. “We don’t room check, but if any staff member happens to wander down the hall and find that you’re unusually messy, there will be consequences. Also, you’re more than welcome to close your door at night, since the hallway lights stay on for twenty-four hours, but don’t expect it to lock. The lock strictly works from the outside, and the only way to operate it is with a key, which we keep secured.”

I grip my inner thighs harder until I begin to feel a warm liquid soak through the fabric of my leggings. The thick, familiar, dark red liquid that I’ve become best friends with.

“Finally, we have a lax schedule that we follow every day. Breakfast is at eight thirty every morning, and a day nurse will wake you up an hour before breakfast. You’re not expected to get up at seven thirty, but you can if you’d like. Lunch is at twelve thirty in the afternoon, dinner is at seven, and lights need to be out by eleven. That’s not to say you need to be asleep, but you need to be in bed laying down by them. As long as you’re not in therapy or undergoing any kind of evaluations, you’ll have free time throughout the day to do what you’d like as long as it complies with our rules, whether that be shower, sleep, draw, journal—”

“Journal?” I snap my head up and cut Blondie off. “I didn’t know we could write here. If I did, I would have brought my diaries.” For as long as I can remember, writing has been one of the few solaces from the hurricane that constantly churns inside my brain. When I write, the entire world around me fades until my voice is the only thing that can be heard. When I write, I am strong. When I write, I am fearless.

“We have some extra notebooks at the station. I’ll make a note for a day nurse to give you one tomorrow.”

I bite my lip and look back down at the floor, my fingertips grazing over the blood spilling out from my skin and soaking my leggings.

“Alright Katrina, I think that’s everything. Get unpacked and head to bed for me, okay? I’m sure you’re exhausted from the day you’ve had.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Blondie pushes herself off of the doorframe and sits herself next to me on my bed. “I’ll be sitting with Janet all night if you need anything, okay?”

I shake my head up and down lazily.

“And Katrina?”

I crane my neck to look at her, some of my hair falling in my eyes in the process.

“We’ll get through this together. I promise.”

I swallow and tuck my hair behind my ear before catching her name on the I.D. clipped to her sleeve. Erica. Blondie’s name is Erica.

“Thanks, Erica.”

It feels like she really means it, too.

***

Song- “Last Smoke Before the Snowstorm” by Benjamin Francis Leftwich

July 2nd, 11:42 PM

“Knock, knock.”

A deep voice fills the air behind me as I’m unpacking my clothes from my duffle bag and causes me to leap out of my skin. I turn to find the source of the noise only to be greeted with the most intimidating creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on loitering in the doorway. My eyes graze over him from his mix-matched sock-covered feet, up his old, baggy sweatpants, across the black muscle tank hanging on his torso, to his tanned face and messy hair. His jaw is clenched and his dark eyed glare gives me a once over before blinking slowly and taking a couple of steps into my room. The closer he gets to me, the smaller I become; he hovers over a foot above me and he smells like sweat and the lingering musk of men’s body wash. He’s a stunning creature, one my eyes haven’t had the pleasure of staring at before now, and I’ve never been more afraid for my safety in my entire life.

“You haven’t written your name on your whiteboard, yet,” he continues while walking to the foot of my bed, eyeing all of the piles of clothes I’ve made while trying to get organized. “A new patient comes in and creates all this ruckus while I’m supposed to be sleeping, and as I peek my head out to see who it is, I don’t even get a name. Now I have to crawl out of bed, sneak across the hall to their room when the nurses aren’t looking, and introduce myself to them in all of my sleepy glory.” Sarcasm drips from his voice as he breaks out into a boyish grin, and I roll my eyes at the sentiment, praying that my adrenaline will stop pumping long enough to get a steady grip on my clothes. Please, God, don’t let him hurt me. Don’t let me die here today. I barely escaped death this morning. I don’t want to have to do it again tonight.

“You must be Grayson,” I choke, my mouth almost too dry to speak.

“How’d you guess?”

I give him a sideways glance as he crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps expanding under his skin with the movement. “I was told earlier tonight that there are only two other patients here, and you don’t look much like a 'Stephanie’ to me. It was just a matter of simple deduction.”

Grayson chuckles and the sound makes me jump again before leaning my back up against the wall for support. “You’ve deduced correctly. I’m Grayson, in the flesh and blood.”

“Mhm. That’s nice.”

“What, you’re not going to tell me your name?”

“Can I tell you after I finish unpacking?” I’m trying to stall giving him any personal information for as long as possible.

“Sure, I’ll even help you.”

No, PLEASE don’t do that–

Grayson’s voice softens and reaches for a pile of leggings. Watching his hands curl around my belongings shoots off sirens in my brain, but I stand frozen as he spins on his heels and finds the cubby I’ve places all my other pants in. He places them down gently in the space before smoothing the pile free of any wrinkles, and as he heads back toward the bed to pick up some more, he finds me staring helplessly at him.

“Hey, love, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Love. Hey, love. The term of endearment shakes me from my trance-like state and I begin to stutter while taking unsteady steps toward him.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I'm—I’m just trying to get used to this new environment, that’s all.”

“I get it. It’s not every day a stranger walks into your place of slumber and offers to put your laundry away for you, all before they learn your name.”

“It’s… it’s something like that, yeah,” I exhale.

Grayson pivots to place another pile into a cubby before facing me again. “To be fair, this is new for me, too. I’ve never offered to help a peculiar, but unusually beautiful girl, with her laundry before I know her name.”

My ears perk up at his words. “What did you just say?”

“You’re not deaf. I know you heard me.”

The room around me begins to spin as Grayson clears my bed completely. I want to help him, I don’t want him to do my dirty work alone, but I also want to scream and run and get as far away from this boy as possible. He’s going to hurt me, I know he is. Why am I not running?!

But, wait, when did the buzzing in my head stop?

The everlasting hurricane that thrashes about inside of me brings a lot of noise with it, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, for the last nineteen years I’ve never been able to shut it off. It accompanies me wherever I go, with whatever I do, and I’ve grown so accustomed to it that I’ve become skilled at ignoring it. Most of the time it’s an annoying buzz, but it times of turmoil, it can turn into a wailing rage that is deafening beyond belief. Suddenly, though, standing in front of Grayson, a boy I’ve known for maybe five whole minutes, there’s absolutely no noise in my head. Nothing. The only sound I can pick up is that of Grayson’s breathing, slow and even, in and out.

Oh my god, did Grayson just turn the noise off?

“All done. Will you tell me your name now?” Grayson’s voice pulls me back to reality, and just as I’m about to open my mouth to answer, Erica pops her head in my doorway.

“I knew I heard multiple voices coming from this room. Grayson, get back to bed and let Katrina get settled in. She doesn’t need harassing.”

Grayson moves his gaze from Erica to me and raises his eyebrows devilishly. “Katrina, it is?”

I nod quickly, lacing my fingers together but unable to break from his stare.

“So… beautiful…” he breathes. Beautiful? He’s lying. This is some kind of sick joke. There’s no way. Me, beautiful? Yeah, right.

“Alright, enough flirting.” Erica waves Grayson toward her and he obliges. “You can bother her in the morning. Right now, sleep will do both of you some wonders. Come on.”

Erica ushers Grayson out of my room, and before reaching behind her to close my door, Grayson turns around to shoot me quick wink. Suddenly, he’s completely disappeared from view, and as I plop down on my bed and throw my face into my pillow, I wonder what in the hell just happened.  Was there some kind of energetic connection or am I going completely mad? Why didn’t I run away? Why did I feel so compelled to stay close to him?

Suddenly, in Grayson’s absence, the buzzing in my brain clicks back on.

Great.


Go to chapter 2 (coming soon)

Dear Charlie,

I’m in way too far over my head. 2017 was supposed to be a fresh start for me, but it’s been the exact opposite. My father continues to sink my mother’s life into a deeper hole than it already is in (by his doing), and he never stops reminding me why I’m wrong or bad. “Normal people don’t do those things. Good people don’t do those things.” My mother, being the micromanaging alcoholic that she is, refuses to calm down and cut me any slack with anything going on, despite the amount of Zoloft she’s on. The girl I’m in love with, who happens to be sitting beside me, likes a senior who’s about to leave, and shows zero interest in me. Jesus Christ, she’s so perfect but in all the wrong ways. The stunning way she walks, breathes, talks only sends a reminder to me that I will never walk with my hand in hers, I will never feel her sweet breath on my cheek, and I will never hear that soothing voice say “I love you.” I sound pathetic, I’m aware. I can’t go a split second without feeling like a third party hovering above “my” body and wanting to scream “Shut up you idiot. Everything you’re saying and thinking and doing looks, sounds, and is pathetic. You’re a lost cause, bitch.” And the monsters that chase me through the ins and outs of my own mind wont leave me alone, or maybe just reembodied themselves, despite moving across the city and changing schools just to escape it. They still chase me, but not actively. Just enough to scare me into running away from the everything but nothing at all. And I don’t want to go back to the doctors about all of this. They don’t care. I don’t care. Let it end.

RL

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Yonce | Choreography by Kyle Hanagami