Confessions of a Bitch

BTK

The sun begins to rise as the note from Viper is torn and discarded in the trash can along with the destroyed photograph and large bits of plaster. I look around the room. It looks decent. I’m barely halfway done. Mum wanted to lend me a hand in cleaning up the room but I blatantly refused. It was my problem, not hers. I throw the broom and dustpan across the room and sit on the ground. I remove my hair from its pony tail and sigh as it falls across my shoulders. I stretch out my legs and wiggle my toes in my shoes whilst fumbling with some strands of my hair. The red words still remain on my wall: MURDERER. I haven’t been able to scrub it out and believe me; I’ve tried ten times to do it. Empty bottles of cleaning agents litter the floor around the wall. Before long, the night’s activities begin taking their toll and I am soon lost in my dark world of monsters and demons.

I am awoken by the ever growing, putrid smell of bleach and disinfectant. I hurriedly sit up to discover that I had somehow left my spot by the other side of the room and decided to make friends with the cleaning agents. So technically, for the past few hours, I have been sniffing bleach and disinfectant. Wow.

I slowly get up from the floor. My head hurts and my throat is dry. I have a feeling it’s from my time on the floor, sniffing disinfectant and bleach. I stretch my arms and yawn while slowly making my way towards the window. I open the blinds and the windows and smile when I breathe in some fresh air.

I need some panadol.

I don’t bother picking up the pink rubbish bag from the floor on my way out. It can wait for a bit. I stumble down the stairs and take a sharp intake of breath when my feet come in contact with the cold tiles. The house is quiet and the blinds are closed. “Mum?” I call out as I make my way into the kitchen. There’s no reply. I open the fridge and grab a packet of panadol along with the two liter bottle of orange juice mum bought the other day at the shops. I’m half way through overdosing on the painkillers when I find the note near the kitchen sink.

Your father and I have gone out. Be safe. X.

I roll my eyes. Where oh where, could my parents be? I should probably call child services and tell them about how my parents neglect me. Then I remember I’m eighteen. It sucks. I lay on the couch and flick through the channels on the television. There’s nothing good to watch, just dumb old replays of Home & Away. It’s a terrible show.

I check the news and almost pout in disappointment. It seems no one has anything to say about me today. Although I’d never admit it, I loved it; the attention. I loved how everyone wanted to know about me. I was the gossip of the town. Everyone wanted to know who I am, my past and deepest darkest secrets. Now they’ve ignored me and are talking about some asylum seeker crisis that I don’t even care about.

I love panadol; especially six tablets of panadol. Overdosing on it makes it work faster. I practically feel better less than five minutes after popping the tablets. Some would say overdosing is a highly stupid thing to do. I treat it differently. It’s a thrill ride, an adventure. A little bit of living on the edge never hurt nobody. Overdosing gives me a lot of relief. It frees my bones and rids the weight on my chest. It’s like I’m walking on ice and could fall over and die at any second. It’s beautiful, euphoric –and I sound like a drug addict.

Great.

I twiddle my thumbs for a while thinking of what I should do. A lot of things swirl through my mind. I could just lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about panadol and birds, or I could do some investigating of my own since my oh-so-wonderful-and-responsible-parents are out.

I shouldn’t be complaining really. I’m eighteen. I’m an adult.

The panadol is messing with my head.