Pink Lemonade

Some mornings, when I wake up, I wish to only drown myself in the depths of my own sorrow and tears. However, other mornings, I wish to drown myself in pain killers and an endless bottle of vodka. Unfortunately, I have half a bottle of pain killers and absolutely no vodka. What a shame it really is; I guess I'll just have to drown in sorrows today.



I rolled off my stiff mattress, that lays in the right-back corner of my room, and cracked my aching muscles to relief. I walked over to my standing mirror, that was placed in the opposite corner as my bed, and checked my appearance. My hair was falling out of the loose bun I had placed it in, my eyes looked cold, and my t-shirt was wrinkled. What a way to wake up.



I grabbed my hair brush and battled the knots in my freshly dyed, pink hair. I pulled it all back into a clean pony tail, leaving the little hairs by my ears to flow down freely. I swipe on my L’Oréal mascara and some classic red lipstick to brighten up my face.



"Merci!" I heard a sharp voice call.



It was my mother, whom I love so, but she always found a way to get on every nerve known to existence.



"Merci!" she screamed again, "Breakfast started ten minutes ago! Hurry up!"



Rolling my eyes; I cracked open my door and shouted back, "I'm not hungry!"



I closed and locked my door as I turned towards my closet, which was on the other side of my room. I walked over and slid the doors open. My wardrobe mostly contained long sleeve shirts and basic jeans. It was nothing special but it was hard to dress up when you had pain engraved on your wrists. I pulled on a plain white, long sleeve shirt over my body and covered my legs with my favorite pair of black leggings. Cute and comfortable. I then grabbed my school bag and walked out of my room.



"Bye mom!" I called out.



I walked towards the door and left for the bus.



Most people found it weird that a sixteen-year-old girl; who was fully capable of driving, rode the bus to school. But what they don't know is that my parents won't let me drive alone; out of fear that I might try something.



You see about a year ago, I was emotionally drained and I was tired of the bad haunting me. I would cut myself out of self-pity. I cried myself to sleep every night and when I woke up in the mornings it felt like I couldn't breathe. My heart would physically ache. It was easy to fake happiness when smiling only requires a few seconds of your time. I wore long sleeve shirts every day and refused to change for gym class. Well, one fateful day my gym teacher said I either changed or risked failing the class, so I had no choice. My gym teacher saw my scars and within a matter of hours I was baker acted. And because my school was the one to baker act me I had to stay there for three days. In those three days, I was surrounded by girls who felt the same pain I did. The anguish we all had in our hearts was enough to make us close. Three days pass and my parents show up for a routine family session. My dad was crying and my mom was drinking out of a flask (even though the doctor asked her to put it away.) I sat by the doctor and my parents were across from me.



"Your daughter is suffering from depression, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes," he had told them.



My father looked at me with a dead stare as the tears were pouring out of his eyes. My mom took a swig from her flask.



Since no one spoke the doctor continued, "She will need at least two weeks of in-patient care and heavy doses of anti-depressants."



My father was still crying and my mother was still staring. There was a slight pause and then my mother, with her arrogant tone and irritating voice said, "So your solution to my daughter’s dramatic break down is to drug her up?"



I tilted my head out of disgust. I was so angry I could feel my words trying to spew like vomit; but I had to restrain myself.



"We have been watching your daughter closely, Mrs. Hughes." he started, "She is not being over dramatic."



So, after they all agree that I will be staying in in-patient care for the next two weeks, we all shake hands and I go back to the girls’ area. They were watching a children's movie.



"Want to join us?" one of the girls asked me.



I politely declined and walked towards my shared room. I was drained; emotionally and physically.



So, two weeks of group therapy and heavy doses of anti-depressants go by and I am back in school. Any friends that I had before I left avoided me. The boy I used to crush on no longer smiled at me when I walked by. It seemed like everyone was giving me sympathetic glares. My heart was beating out of its chest and I felt this since over overwhelming despair.



I remember running to the bathroom and crying. It was cold and my cuts had turned to scars; they were almost invisible. My tears were a symbol of my isolation and I had never felt so alone until that moment.



So then about three months ago I had hit rock bottom. I was tired of everyone knowing who I was and what I had done. I wanted out of this world. I woke up one morning and it had felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my heart. I was hysterically crying and I had decided that I couldn't take it anymore. I slashed my wrists and chugged over four various kinds of medication. What should've been a successful suicide turned into a failed overdose. I fell asleep in my bed and was devastated to wake up in the hospital; my parent’s angry faces hovering over me. Most mothers would sob at the idea of their child emotionally breaking. But my mom was a part of the rare clan of the moms who couldn't give a damn. Most would weep for the ones who were born with broken hearts; but she would throw in the towel and pour herself a glass of wine. In fact, if it weren't for my father then I would be dead. My mom would've just sipped on her wine and enjoyed the show.



So now, to prevent any of this from happening again, I am not allowed to drive alone, distribute my own medication, use a normal razor, or have any kind of string. Not even shoe laces.



Now I sit here, on the bus, with the curious eyes of freshmen staring at me. I'm sure they had all heard my story and I could feel their judging stares. Most of the time I could get past it, but today it seemed like their glaring eyes were going to tear me to shreds. The minutes seemed to be passing painfully slow and when we arrived at the school I felt a bit of relief. If I could just get to my first period without having a panic attack, then everything would be fine.



I walked off the bus and sped through the hallways and crowds of people. Although, I did receive a lot of curious glares it was worth it. I waked into the classroom and claimed the seat in the back corner of the room. I called it the invisible corner. Fortunately, the next fifteen minutes go by faster than the ten on the bus. The first bell rings and students start to pile into the classroom. By the time the second bell rings, everyone is settled in and Mr. Evans is taking roll. Within five minutes we heard footsteps running towards the door and within a few seconds an unrecognizable face appears.



She had long, blond beach waves that rested at her hips and these bright green eyes that made her pale skin radiate.



"Hello, young lady," Mr. Evans said curiously, "how can I help you?"



She pushed the curls behind her ear and replied, "Oh sorry. I'm your new student."



Mr. Evans raised his eyebrows at her.



"Andi Bleu," she said quickly.



Mr. Evans scanned through his roll call sheet and his face brightened up when her name appeared.



"And there you are!" he exclaimed, "you can take a seat over there."



His big, bulging finger was pointing over the desk in front of me. I looked at the desk and back at her. There was no way this girl was going to sit in front of me, the pink haired freak. But I was wrong. She gave a big smile and skipped over to the desk.



Within a few minutes, after roll call had ended, she turned to me with a crooked smile.



"Hi there," she started, "I'm Andi."



I nodded at her, "Hello."



She raised her eye brows at me and in response I raised mine back at her.



"Well, aren't you going to tell me your name?" she asked.



"Oh. My name is Merci," I said slowly.



She reached her hand across my desk and held it out to me. I accepted the friendly greeting and shook her hand.