Melancholy

My jail

Flora and I take artsy pictures of ourselves and of the leaves and the flowers around us. We laugh at stupid things we did at my grade three birthday party and at people we met this year. We joke about random stuff and then my phone vibrates violently in my pocket. My dad.

"Hold on my dad's calling", I walk away from the rushing water.

"Where are you it's 6:10", his voice steady but stern.

"Uh...", I glace back at Flora.

"I'm on the bus to home but the bus stopped for no reason", I feel a tight knot form at the back of my throat.

"What bus? I could pick you up I'm at your school".

I stiffen up and look back at Flora.

"Um...uh..never mind", I choke on my words.

"The bus is working now."

"Okay Essense", my father sounds unimpressed.

He hangs up.

"I have to go home now", I say under my breath.

"Oh...", Flora's smile quickly fades.

"Okay let's go back home and see ifp my mom got back yet."

We walk back in complete silence. Once we enter her house Flora goes to ask her mom to drive me home while I go upstairs to retrieve my stuff from her room.

"You can borrow my stuff I really don't care unless your parents will get upset if they see you wearing someone else's clothes", Flora hands me my uniform and backpack.

"Nah, they won't mind",I shrug and walk downstairs.

We go to the car, Flora her mom and I.

Flora connects the aux cord to her phone and Flawless by Beyonce blares through the speakers. Flora's mom stops in front of my house.

"Byeeee thanks for the ride."

"No problem dear."

"See you tomorrow."

The garage is open and the front door is too. I enter the house to smell dinner. Chicken and soup? I don't know. Wait. In order for dinner to be ready mom has to be home. Shit. I wrap my jacket around my waist and exhale.

"Where were you? I called! You're father called you! Why are you home late?", my mom came out of the kitchen and antagonized me with her hands on her hips.

Her eyes analyzes me looking searching for a flaw.

"Mom I-", my mom looks at my clothes.

"Whose clothes are those? What the...George! Come look at what your daughter is wearing!", my dad questions my clothing as well.

"She left wearing a skirt and comes back wearing shorts and sweater! Completely inappropriate! You must represent your school, it already has a bad rep."

I stand there hot in the face.

"Whose clothes are those?!", my mom raises her voice.

"Flora's. We had strings rehearsal and the school is very hot and the skirt was uncomfortable so we went to the gym locker room and changed", my gut tosses and turns.

"Next time do not change! Give those clothes back to the girl immediately."

"Okay", I run upstairs and into my room.

I shut the door and lay on my bed.

I hate it here. It's so strict here. I'm, not even allowed to wear shorts around my dad when I'm in the house, I'm not allowed to keep my phone and laptop in my room at night, I have to wear a bra in the house, I'm not allowed to have friends over or go to people's house, I'm not allowed to have sleepovers I can't even walk to Wal-Mart by myself. Strict. I hate it here. Hate it here.

I remember in the eighth grade I asked my parents if I can go to the mall with friends with their parents to chaperon. My dad told me straight up that he thinks something is going to happen to me.

Yeah I know, parents care because they love you. Maybe, they love me too much, but sometime's it feels like they don't. It's complicated. Let me put it this way, my parents should put more love in other aspects of my life that need it. For example, I came out to my mom telling her I believe I am depressed. She would either a) say she'll make an appointment with my doctor b)tell me "What if you're depressed? You'll just use it as an excuse" c) explain to me the long process of diagnosing me and tell me a long list of strong narcotics the doctors will prescribe to me d) just yell at me telling me I'm always self diagnosing myself. If I tell my dad I'm depressed he'd say he's depressed too and he'd tell me about him and his endless pile of dept. When I try to tell him there's a difference in being depressed and having depression his phone just rings and he'd just forget about me. My parents need to put their concern in that. In the fact that I'm mentally ill. That I'm sad. That they can loose me. Whenever I mention suicide, it sparks a huge argument. I just want to run away, but to where?

This place is a jail and I need an escape route to paradise. A place where I can have my music on full blast and not have to worry about whether my mom is calling me or not. A place where I can breathe in air and roll around in he tall grass with puppies and lions and not have to worry about my darn allergies. A place where I can be truly happy and myself. A place where I'm not sad for absolutely no reason. A place where the blade turns into a pen, my skin turns into the paper and my cuts into the words. I want to be in a place away form here. This jail. I can't breathe in this place. I don't think my parents understand teenagers need to make mistakes to grow. Not saying I'm going to smoke weed and sleep with twenty guys. No, I just want to venture out into the unknown with a friend, I want unsupervised shopping sprees and fun road trips to god knows where. I'm a teen. I need fun. I need to grow. I need to go.

------------------------------------------------------

Author's note: I've never done an author's note before and I don't know why I'm doing one considering I don't have a lot of followers and barely any reads but if I could wake up to a comment from someone, anyone, any random person that would make my day. It could be constructive criticism, ideas, what you like about my writing style. Anything positive. Okaii, well happy reading I guess, bye now. :)

-Bree