12 hours before…
The last day of school was now. Everyone had their yearbooks out and were going from person to person asking for a signature. They didn’t care whether they were ever friends with these people or not. They wanted to look back at their yearbook and brag to their future children: “See how great I was in high school?”
“What fakes,” I thought to myself, disgusted.
Sharon stood next to me as I cleaned out my locker. Occasionally she would grab someone by their arm and ask them to sign her yearbook. Sometimes they’d stop by her and ask her to sign there.
People were always asking if they could sign mine and I theirs.
Pages and pages were filled with little notes and signatures of what people thought was a thoughtful comment. Sure it sounded thoughtful but it wasn’t honest.
Going to miss you!
You’re so talented!
You’ll do great at State!
Keep up those English grades, Ms. Future journalist.
Thanks for all the help in math!
You were such a great bio partner!
We need to get together this summer!
Text me!
You are so petty! Wish I had gotten to know you better
Hit me up petty lady ;)
Don’t ever stop running!
Thanks for being such a supportive track captain!
Call me up if you ever want to shoot hoops again!
I know I didn’t hang with you that much but I always admired how put together and sure of yourself you are.
Never change!
And it went on and on. Every time I was given a book to sign I’d give the same message: H.A.G.S – Odette G. Just like all the messages I left in elementary school yearbooks.
When Sharon read what I signed in her book she burst out laughing and handed it back to me. “Seriously? Have a great summer? Aren’t we spending it together, you dope? Come on, give me that mushy gushy message you meant to give me.”
She nudged me and tried handing the book back, but I capped my pen and threw it into my purse.
“PMS?” she asked trying to make a joke.
***
I sat in my room tossing and turning in bed trying to ignore the thoughts swimming through my head. It was after midnight and everyone in the house was asleep. I should have been asleep, I had been exhausted all day long.
Slowly I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom and turned on the light, looking at my reflection in the mirror. My face was bare of any make up, my eyes were red and puffy like I was on the verge of tears, my hair was a mess. Then I saw my dad’s razor in the little basket on the shelf above the sink. A creeping sensation came over me as I reached for it.
Carefully I undid the razor and pulled out a blade and held it up to the light. Its sharp edge glinted. It looked so dainty and weak in between my fingers.
Folding my hand around the blade lightly, I went back to my room. I sat at the edge of my bed staring at the blade in the palm of my hand.
I don’t have to do it. I can still deal with this.
These people shouldn’t get to me. They don’t know me. They just think everything for me is going alright and perfect. It’s not their fault.
I can deal with this.
No I can’t. End it now. You’ll feel better.
Dad will be sad.
Dad will get over it.
I can’t leave him alone.
He has Leigh.
What if people find out?
Who cares? I’ll be dead.
It’ll hurt.
Only for a few minutes.
It hurts now.
Keep going. It’ll fade soon enough. It will all fade.
_____________
Thank you so much for reading everyone! The last chapter will be up sometime before June (I have a bunch of big school projects to do before I can write the last chapter, so please be patient). The response on the last chapter was amazing and it made me so happy reading all of your comments. Thank you for sharing your time with this story and me. All of your comments about your personal battles... It's really nice to see that you can connect with this story. Feel free to leave comments about your personal battle with depression suicidal thoughts, or just how much this story has helped you with understanding depression. Or just tell me about you. I like to hear about people, so feel free to tell me about yourselves :)
Thank you so much again!
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Falling Colors
Teen Fiction"The unfixable; the shattered; the torn; the broken. They all come here. It's my job to remake them, because once its broken there is no going back to the way it was. It must be remade." Six individuals. Six unique stories. Five exercises. One...
