Burn My Paranoia One Last Time

26. Rosepetals

A narc, she said. It's such an ugly word. I stare at my despondent reflection on my bedroom's neon vanity while remembering Sloane's cruel words. They'd stabbed my heart like a knife. I didn't like being her enemy, but now it's gotten worse. It's been a few weeks since we broke apart. Now she's completely indifferent towards me. I might as well be a ghost with the way she glides right past me in the halls at school.

I sigh deeply and clutch my arms over my chest. Is that really who I am? A liar? A traitor? A narc? I just wanted our final year of high school to go nicely. Was that too much to ask for? Sure, the man of my dreams is finally my boyfriend.

Yet now, I've lost one of my dearest friends. I grip my skin tightly, feeling it pinch under my nails. Maybe Sloane's right. I'm a horrible, selfish person.

Maybe my mother's right. I'm not smart enough, and I'm just not good enough for anything. I didn't know how to keep Sloane around, and I didn't know how to keep my mouth shut.

I still remember the evening of my first interview. My mother had no words of wisdom to offer, unless those words of wisdom only manifested themselves in doubts. When I turned to her for advice, she'd quickly lose her temper with me and shine a spotlight on every potential problem. How would I get to work on time? How would I get a ride? How would I deal with so much responsibility? I didn't understand her doubts, because at first she'd been so eager to push me to start searching for a job. While my interview date loomed ahead, she busied herself building a wall of fear and apprehension in front of me.

"You won't survive a day in that job. You know nothing. Why are you asking me for advice if you won't even take it?" Her biting words echoed in my ear.

I never asked for her control. All I wanted was advice, some genuine suggestions. Now, when I close my eyes, all I hear are her doubts: a soundtrack of five million reasons why I'm not good enough and how I will mess up.

After my interview, she said nothing. I thought, maybe she could finally be proud of me. Someone saw potential in me and hired me for the job. That has to count as an accomplishment, right?

"What do you want me to say?" My mother had shrugged carelessly. "That's only half the work done. We'll see if you even make it through the next week."

It's just... not enough. I don't know when I'll ever be enough. Nothing I do is worthwhile. Nothing I do is important. I'm... just not that important.

My heart beats fast and I clutch my chest. Why is it that the air I breath is no longer good enough for me? Maybe I'm not deserving of it.

I pick up a small cardboard box and whirl around quickly, exit my bedroom, and make my way quietly to the bathroom. It's late at night— about ten o'clock— so I know my mother is deep asleep. I shut the door and try catch my breath. I won't cry. I won't!

Sloane, why did you make me hate myself? Mother, why did you make me hate myself?

I struggle to open the box while sniffing my nose. These are the roses Sloane brought me from her garden as a gift for "being a good friend" and keeping her secret.

I open a cabinet and dig through a bunch of my mother's pill bottles until I find her secret lighter. Closing the cabinet quietly with my hip, I light a small candle on the counter. I reach over to the bath and start running hot water.

While the tub is fills up, I take out a rose from the box and slowly tear off a petal one by one. I let them fall gracefully onto the water in front of me. Will this year end badly? I rip off a petal in hopes of an answer and murmur "it won't"... I drop another petal. It will. It won't. It will. It won't. This goes on and on until I'm left with one final petal on this rose that my corrupted brain has decided holds my destiny. It will.