Chapter One of my first novel

Looking back on it now, there really wasn’t much there to warn us what our futures would be like. It’s like Mrs. Grigsby said, you can plot out your career, but you can’t plot out your life. My life, or story, I guess really starts with the end Anna’s story, because it was her, who made my story happen, or at least was a factor in its beginning.
Anna’s parents would have been happy, had they been married to other people. They weren’t meant for commitment, but they didn’t want to hurt Anna by divorcing. Instead, they stayed married. They were almost happy for the first few years of Anna’s life, but by the time Anna was twelve they had both had affairs and were constantly yelling at each other.
There’s something you must know about Anna, before I continue. She was perhaps, the kindest most loving person I knew and will ever know. Yet, beneath that kindness was a fear, so well hidden that even I didn’t always notice it. Her parents fighting rocked Anna to the core, so much that in her mind all their threats towards each other, somehow got misplaced in her mind, and turned towards her. She never outwardly told anyone this, but you could see it, see the ravishes of mental abuse.
I don’t remember when she started cutting, but she’d been doing it so long now, that it seemed to me a normal thing. I know I should’ve told someone, but, I guess it didn’t seem like she was actually hurting herself. She told me it made her feel better, freer. It scared me at first, but then like most things, I began to ignore it.
Anna had always been beautiful, even in death she retained her ominous beauty. I remember, when we first met in kindergarten, I had thought she was a princess from a fairy tale. She was very unlike a princess though. She wasn’t bratty, she didn’t beg and she never gave the teachers a reason to dislike her. . Everyone thought she could handle anything that came her way. We joked about it all the time. We were wrong. Everyone thought she was perfect, even me. That was our downfall
Her story ends, on perhaps the day when most stories begin. Homecoming. I remember the anticipation for that day, how we pretended to be models, showing each other what we like and disliked. I remember how she smiled when she found the perfect dress, the dress I’ll never forget. She stood in front of the dressing room door, sheepish at first, afraid of my criticism. I found none. Never had I seen her so lovely, then in that dress. It was a mixture of crème silk and burgundy velvet, rhinestones covered the bottom, shimmering with every movement.
What I remember more than the dress however, is what I found the last night she wore it.
* * *
Anna’s parents, desperate for relief had gone on separate vacations the day before, leaving me to pick her up before the dance. I walked up the deserted driving, past the lilies, which Mrs. Lathan loved so much, and thought of nothing other than dancing the night away with my best friend. When I opened the front door I was surprised to find the main hallway lights were off. Laughing to myself, I commented on Anna’s absentmindedness and rushed to up the stairs to her room.
When I walked into her bedroom, I stopped, momentarily at a loss for what I saw. Her book lay scattered all over the floor, shelves bare. Clothes, lay on every in of pink carpet. I had never seen her room this way; it looked as if it had survived a large storm. I was confused; for I knew Anna was a perfectionist and would normally have a heart attack had one of her little brothers done this to her room. Music was coming from the closed bathroom door; I knew she was in there, getting ready. She always seemed to lose track of time in there.
Smiling, I opened the door, “Hey! Guess wh- Oh my god!” I stopped dead in my tracks, unable to comprehend the scene in front of me. I stood on the threshold of that bathroom for what seemed like ages, staring at Anna. I stared at the blood which had dripped onto the floor into a puddle, the blood that had stained her dress crimson. Upon her wrists were long, perfectly heart shaped cuts. However, their perfection was ruined by a long slash on the hearts, as if we had all broken her heart. She was lying in such a way that I knew that she had not died comfortably—her neck was stretched as if trying to flee from her self-inflicted death. I covered my mouth, fearful of the bile which threatened its was up.
Without thought, I ran to Anna and clasped her bloody hand, exclaiming, “Anna! Wake up!” Sobbing, I began to shake her, trying desperately to wake up my sleeping friend.
I crawled into the bathtub with her, forgetting that only a few minutes ago I was supposed to go to homecoming. “Anna darling, what’s wrong? Why won’t you wake up?” I held her close; unable to understand what had happened to her. I kept telling myself over and over that this was simply a nightmare and in a few seconds I would wake up.
My tears fell on Anna’s serene face, as I look for any sign that she was breathing. “I’m going to go get help,” I told Anna as I got up from the bath tub and walked towards the door. I calmly told her that everything was going to be alright, and that tomorrow we’d be joking about this.
However, as soon as I walked out of the bathroom, I was frantic. I understood what Anna had just done, but I didn’t know how to reverse it, to make it all better. I couldn’t call my mom, she was working late, and my dad was somewhere in California on a business meeting. Neither of her parents were within one hundred, so they wouldn’t be able to get here in time. Would calling Rachel be a good idea? No, Rachel would be worse than me.
I began a frantic search looking for a phone, any phone. I knew Anna’s house almost better than my own, but today, of all days, I was lost, unable to discern the difference between her parent’s bedroom and the kitchen. They had an emergency cell phone. That I knew, I just couldn’t remember where it was. Could I somehow set off the burglar alarm so someone would know to come?
Suddenly, I knew what to do. I picked up a lamp that was residing on a table in front of me and began to run towards the window. The cord ripped from the socket, creating a spark. I didn’t care that I’d just broken a two hundred dollar lamp; I was too intent on smashing the living room window.
I reached the window and threw the lamp at it with all my might. Nothing happened. Shit. I picked the lamp up again and tried to break the window again. Again, nothing happened.
Fortunately, Mr. Addams heard my screams and the loud banging I was making and came over to see what was wrong. I suppose my blood stained dress and pale face scared him at first because he backed away from me when he saw me. I noticed this and started to sob even harder.
I fell to the ground, unable to support myself any longer. “She’s dead,” I whispered. “Dead.”
I’m not sure how Mr. Addams heard me, but he did. He hugged me and said, “Who’s dead, Katie? Who?” He began to rock me, trying to get me to calm down, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not while Anna was still up there in that tub.
“Anna,” I whispered shakily, “Anna.”
He might’ve whispered, “Oh, God.” But I can’t be sure, because the only thing I really noticed after I told him Anna was dead is that he was suddenly gone, and again I was alone.
***
“Why do you think you’re here?” the doctor asked as he looked up from his notepad.
I’m not sure how I got here. I don’t remember anything past Anna. I don’t remember going to the police hospital. I don’t remember Anna’s funeral. I certainly don’t remember trying to wake Anna up at her funeral.
But they say that’s what I did. They say that I freaked out when Anna wouldn’t wake up. So now I’m here. I don’t know where here is, because it feels as if I’ve suddenly woken from a dream. I’ve been here for over two months. But I don’t remember being here for two months.
I ignore the doctor in front of me. He doesn’t understand. Anna was still alive when they buried her. He doesn’t believe me though. So I sit, and I wait for the hour to be up.
He stares back at me, analyzing me I can tell. He thinks I’m crazy. He thinks I should be wearing a straight jacket. He begins to write something down. I fight the urge to ask what he’s writing and turn around so I can stare at the clock.
Tick. Tock. “It’s like watching water boil,” I say before I even realize I’ve spoken.
“What is?”
“Life. It’s like watching water boil. If you watch someone, really watch them and love them and pay attention. They’ll live longer. They’ll be happier, but if you stop. If you don’t pay attention, their lives are over way sooner.”
“I don’t understand,” he says as he writes in his notebook.
“Water. If you watch it boil, it never boils. But if you turn around, and do something else, it goes faster.”
“I see,” he says. Then he looks at the clock. “I think our time is up.”
I can here my parents talking to the doctor outside of my room. I don’t call it a bedroom, because it’s not. It reminds me of a hospital room and I’ve never really like hospitals. The walls are bare and empty, devoid of emotion. I envy my walls. I place my hand on a cold white brick, then my face. I think, maybe, if I stand here long enough, I’ll become part of the wall, I’ll be blank.
It doesn’t work though. I’ve stood here for hours and nothing ever happens. It doesn’t stop me from trying. At night I feel guilty for standing by the wall because it means I’m trying to forget Anna. I don’t want to forget her, just her death.
I step away from the walls to better hear what the doctor is telling my mother, “She’s sick. I really recommend that she stay here longer.”
“My daughter isn’t sick. How would you react if your best fried committed suicide and you were the one who found her?
“Well ma’am, I—“
“You’ve never been through it so you have no authority over this situation. I want to take my daughter out of this hospital.”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t do that. She must stay here until she’s better.”
“Well, she sure as hell isn’t going to get better here.”
I stop listening. My mom doesn’t think I’m sick. That’s all that I need to hear. I begin to form a plan. Maybe if I pretend to be somebody else for a while. They’ll think I’m alright.
I walk over to the desk in the corner and begin to fill out the questionnaire that I’m required to fill out every night. I smile as I write things I don’t mean. I stop on the last question, Why are you here? Unable to think of a way to answer it that they would want to hear. I get up from the desk, and walk over to the wall, “Do you know?” I ask it, “Do you know why I’m here?” It doesn’t reply, but I knew it wouldn’t. But suddenly, I know why they think I’m here, and what they want to here.
<i>I am here because, after Anna’s death I have found it difficult to cope and express in words how I feel, so I rebel and become introverted. I act worse than I am because I need attention.</i>
I don’t feel better after writing this. In fact I feel worse. I just lied about Anna. I didn’t tell them the truth. <i>I’m here, because Anna isn’t.</i>