TOO YOUNG TO BE SO SAD(ECCEDENTESIAST)

FOUR

Truly, adults often contribute to the depression experienced by 95% of teenagers. Their perspective diverges markedly from ours; their rationale often strays far from our own. They encourage us to voice our thoughts and opinions, but when we do so, we're met with shame. They offer explanations for why we should follow their path, without allowing us room to express why their approach might be unfeasible for us.

They fail to recognize that we're in the midst of growth and change. Some of us grapple with puberty, while many struggle to navigate the complexities of adulthood. They pile on pressure atop our already burdened minds and exacerbate the flames of our already blazing hearts. A psychologist once wisely stated, "Children should be taught how to think, not what to think." My openness with adults ceased when I was merely four years old, undergoing therapy due to my mother's absence. The more I confided in the therapist, the more I sensed her insincere intentions and manipulations. It dawned on me that enduring my struggles in silence was preferable to discussing them. After all, what can they truly offer? Very little...

"Well, Miss Crystal, is it?" inquired the elderly gentleman, rifling through his desk with the diligence of a cat exploring a closet.

"Yes, sir," I responded, mustering an effort to remain composed and avoid engaging with the other staff members who existed in a different realm from the one I felt stoned and detached from. He persisted in his search until he produced a career book and dropped it before me with a theatrical thud. Overly dramatic, I thought.

"This book will guide you in discovering your life's goal. I would appreciate it if you review it and provide me with a report by next week," I chuckled softly, drawing the attention of a few teachers in our vicinity. "A mere book won't pave my career path. I'm sorry, but I won't be delving into this, old man," I retorted, returning the book with a flourish, mirroring his dramatic presentation. He studied me for a brief moment, shaking his head incredulously. "That's quite impolite, young lady."

I arched an eyebrow, silently questioning whether he considered my impoliteness to be the book's return or my address to him as "old man." He nodded as if comprehending my unspoken thoughts.

"This isn't a request; it's an order!" he proclaimed, his gaze unbroken and his eyelids motionless. "Or you can bring your father to the school tomorrow." What?! Swiftly, I seized the book, mustered a smile, and exited the office. Left with no alternative, I strode down the corridor, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. I had to enlist my sister's help to read and summarize the book, then fabricate something coherent. I sent her a text, arranging to meet her on the rooftop. As anticipated, she demanded a bribe of ten bucks, which constituted my only lunch money.

Perched on the rooftop's edge, I peered down at the students milling about the school grounds, some engaged in physical education classes. They all appeared unburdened by worries.

"Hey, you planning to jump or something?" a deep, husky voice queried, its minty breath wafting into my ears, mind, and olfactory senses. No one had ever ventured to the rooftop during lunch or PE sessions; it had been exclusively my domain since my time here. Having company now was exactly what I didn't desire. I turned around and leapt down to confront whoever was encroaching upon my solitude. Regrettably, it turned out to be a male figure—well, was I foolishly expecting that such a husky voice would belong to a female? Standing at least 6'2" with a muscular build, he boasted dark brown hair and a skin tone that defied categorization: not entirely fair, yet not deeply dusky either. He occupied that in-between space, too dark for the pale and too light for the dark. His deep brown eyes mirrored his hair color, and a perpetually smug smile adorned his features. His finely shaped eyebrows bore a resemblance to Luca from "Grown-ish," though he'd need dreadlocks to complete the look.

"How can I assist you?" I managed to muster the courage to inquire. "Well, if you've got brains, you can assist me with some homework. If not, then that's that," he quipped, taking a bite out of his sandwich. "Or are you still contemplating a jump?" Ugh, even if I had entertained the idea of ending it all, his cocky words and flippant attitude would swiftly dispel any such notion.

As the bell signaled the start of classes, I anticipated that he would leave. To my surprise, he strolled past me, seemingly oblivious to the bell, and nonchalantly claimed my spot. "Nice view," he remarked, audibly slurping his drink. "Don't you have classes or something?" I shot him a quizzical look.

"Not interested," he responded, leaving me utterly baffled. Who on earth was this guy?

"I'm new here, still exploring. Rooftops have always been my favorite hideout in the nine schools I've been shuffled to. I heard a rumor that this rooftop belonged to a psychopath or maybe a sociopath. What's intriguing is that I was told it was a 'she.' Quite amusing—I've acquired a rival and rooftop competition. So, here's the deal: find a new gloomy spot. Rooftops are sacred to those who were tormented as kids, and you don't seem the type." It took about ten seconds for his message to register in my mind—essentially, he was demanding that I relinquish my territory for him, the new student. It felt like a threat, and he hadn't even asked. My frustration reached a boiling point, and I lashed out. He winced in pain, swiftly descending from my claimed spot.

"You're playing with fire, buddy. You better march your behind to class, newbie." I seized the remainder of his sandwich, downing it in one go. He offered me his drink, and I guzzled it down, emitting a loud belch. He shot me a look of disgust as he walked away, rubbing his head where I had smacked him. He might have been the oddest and most irritating guy I had ever encountered, but his brief company curiously filled a void. With a sigh, I reverted to my usual thoughts. My phone rang, and the caller ID revealed it was my dealer. A sinking feeling gripped my heart.

"Yo! Where you at? I need my cut from the morning sales. I'm about to go broke real soon," the urgent message flashed on my phone, setting my thoughts racing. "You there?"

"Apologies, man. Lost the pipes for today. The cops had us on the run. I'll make it up to you. Planning an all-night sales tonight," I replied, hoping he'd understand. "Alright, no problem. Just watch your back out there. If you need a heater, you know you can count on me. I'll bring it to you free. You're covered, my friend." I couldn't help but smile as I ended the call.

Max was no ordinary character—he manufactured his own drugs and enlisted young, lost souls into his operations, steering them toward a life of crime before society could even notice. His philosophy was simple: amass wealth before death could claim him. He ruthlessly cut ties with anything that hindered his path to the kind of wealth he desired. Max had earned a notorious reputation as a drug dealer, remaining on the wanted list for a decade. Once apprehended, he managed to evade conviction by claiming psychological issues. He had mastered the art of dodging both the law and danger, ensuring that any informants or infiltrators met a swift end.

He took me in without reservations about my age or gender role. As the only girl in his crew, I held a unique position, being the one who truly understood him. I had deliberately forged a close relationship with Max, as he epitomized my mentor's aspirations. One of my unshakeable dreams was to inherit Max's empire, a means of fulfilling my mentor's vanished ambitions and expressing my gratitude for saving my life. We were just kids then, but he outshone me in every way—smarter, kinder, and swifter. My only edge was perhaps cuteness. Despite his less-than-pleasing appearance and personality, I admired him for his intellect, confidence, and the audacity to undertake tasks that I couldn't fathom.

However, he was also a genuine first-degree sadist...