Man Overboard

3. Push It Out, Fake a Smile

I winced at the sound of my locker slamming shut. I looked up to see the culprit of the loud noise. There stood Charlotte, one of the bitchiest (and most popular) girls in school, with her manicured hand pressed against my locker door. What could she possibly want? The final bell had just rung and it was only the first day of school. I couldn't possibly have pissed her off yet.

            "Is there a reason why you're slamming other people's lockers?" I asked. "Or are you just being a bitch for no particular reason?"

            "Ooh, look who grew a pair over the summer," Charlotte sneered. "Remember who's in charge around here." Charlotte raised an eyebrow at me, as if expecting an answer or a sign of submission, but I just scowled.

            "Anyways," Charlotte rolled her eyes once she realized I wasn't going to respond. "I just wanted to make sure that you're going to stay away from the football team this year. We don't need any more sex scandals, especially now that Brad and I are officially dating."

            I tried to shrug off her mention of last year's rumors. For some reason, all the members on the football team had claimed that I slept with each and every one of them. You'd think that this would have a negative effect on their reputations, since I'm viewed as the school's "loner emo kid," as Charlotte loved to remind me of. But no, all the rumors had resulted in was getting the entire school to brand me as a slut, even though none of it was true.

            "It's not my fault if Brad can't keep it in his pants around me," I replied, even though I didn't even know who Brad was exactly. I tried to avoid the football team, and the rest of the school for that matter, as much as possible. "What's the problem, Charlotte? Are you not putting out and that's why he has to stoop so low as to fuck me?"

            "Listen here, you little slut," Charlotte hissed, slapping my locker for emphasis. "Just stay away from him. And if you don't, I will make it my personal duty to make your life a living hell. You think your pathetic life is bad now? Mess with me, and you'll find out just how bad it can really be. You'd have a lot more than just your wrists to cover up, cutter."

She pointedly looked at my long-sleeved shirt. I fidgeted slightly, pulling down on the sleeves subconsciously, even though I knew my cuts were already covered. She was just making an accurate guess. There was no way she could know about my bad habit. That is, until she noticed my fidgeting, took it as confirmation, and scoffed.

"I don't even know why you try," Charlotte continued, giving me a fake sympathetic look. She finally took her hand off my locker and took a step back from me. "You should just kill yourself already. No one wants you here."

As Charlotte walked off down the hallway, I felt the urge to laugh and to cry. If only she knew that I had been planning on killing myself this past weekend. Something tells me she wouldn't even care. She wouldn't feel guilty at all for any of the mean words that she's said to me. Why would anyone care?

I knew I shouldn't let someone like Charlotte get to me. But it's one thing to hear those thoughts in your own mind every day and then another to have someone tell you the exact same thing. It just validates your own feelings. And then you start wondering: if someone else thinks I should die, how many other people think the same thing? It's not like she was telling me anything I didn't already know.

In fact, I knew more than her. She had no idea the full extent as to why I should commit suicide. Of course, she was partially wrong when she said no one would care if I died. My dad would care. Just not for the right reasons.

I pressed my thumb to my left wrist, a sharp pain stinging throughout my arm at the touch. I thought back to my dad's reaction to my return home yesterday and the reason behind the fresh cuts.