The Art of Suicide (NaNoWriMo 2015)

Chapter 1

                  

            It is impossible to understand the lure of something as arcane as death until life has pushed you so far it seems as if there is nothing else left. Most people believe teenagers, especially ones as young as I am, cannot hope to understand the complexities of depression and emotional anguish. Fifteen years on this earth is far more than enough to understand as much as some adults of sixty do. Teenagers know a lot more about pain than adults would like to believe or even acknowledge.

            Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped my towel tightly around myself, hoping no one would be standing around. I had walked out more than once to find several of the older girls lying in wait. I guess beating up the younger girls, like myself, gave them a twisted sense of power. The fact that we had community showers only gave them better access to torture those of us who weren't quite as comfortable changing in front of others.

            Unfortunately this was going to be one of the days I wasn't alone.

            Almost as soon as I'd shoved the curtain aside and stepped into the space right outside the line of ten stalls that were used for showering I was knocked off my feet. My head bounced painfully off the tiled floor and I heard someone say, "Hey, watch it, Carrie. You don't want to actually get her sent to the nurse."

            There was a haughty laugh and then, "Who cares? She's nobody."

            Maybe that should have made me angry, but really all I felt was tired. I was tired of all of the times these girls had hurt me and made me feel like I was nothing. Before my anger could even begin to get any traction it was frozen away by the words, "She's less than nothing. Did you hear about her mom? How her dad killed her mom and then himself when she was, like, five."

            The story was all wrong, they didn't even know what they were talking about. I wished I had the energy to correct them, to tell them how stupid they were for thinking they knew anything about me. Instead, I just curled up into an even smaller ball, trying to make myself into less of a target.

            Someone laughed but before any of them could hit me, there was a loud noise, like a door had been thrown open with no care for anyone who might have been standing in the way. I couldn't open my eyes, I was too scared of what I might see as I fought not to lose my breakfast. My mother had been murdered, yes, but the story that girl had told wasn't the truth of what had happened. It was my uncle, not my father, who killed her and the sight still haunted my dreams.

            "What the actual fuck do you think you are doing?" A voice, loud with anger, powered over my fear.

            "Oh, come on, Vivian." One of the girls spoke, an amused lilt to her voice. "What do you care?"

            "Shove it, Melinda. I don't have time for your bullshit. Get the hell out of here before I do something you'll really regret."

            There was a loud huff and then several pairs of retreating footsteps.

            A gentle touch on my cheek had me opening my eyes. There was a small girl crouching next to me, her hazel eyes focused solely on me as she offered me a small smile. "Are you alright?" She asked, her voice soft.

            I couldn't quite get my voice to work, but I did manage a small nod.

            "I'm Zoey." Her gaze shifted to the girl who stood a few feet away and the most likely candidate for whoever had saved me. "That's Vivian."

            Vivian glanced at Zoey when she spoke, a small twitch of her lips giving away her fondness for the girl. She walked over to where I laid on the floor and I couldn't help but edge away from her, my nerves still on edge. She frowned, but didn't move any closer. "Did they hurt you?" Her voice was low, like she was used to talking to others who frightened easily.