Bottles || ✔️

Her Bottles.

"I'm for whoever gets you through the night."
---Frank Sinatra

Bottles.

Lots of bottles.

Water.

Gallons of water.

Pale steam. All over the mirror. 

Phone? Hurled across the room.

Photos? Torn and scattered all over.

Thoughts?

Empty.

****

There should be tons of things on her mind right now. But instead, all she could think of was why?

Scrolling through the messages again, through all the sweet good-nights; listening to the familiar voice messages, the sentences she knew off by heart. The silly photos and memories they created - seemed like a million years ago.

Staring at the orange bottles next to the sink, fingers numbed and eyes sore. 

It seemed so far away but so close, so painful yet so deadened.

He'd said, "I've lost interest,"

"Why?"

"I'm getting bored."

"Why?"

"I'm tired of you."

Then, followed by a hundred why's, until she couldn't press send anymore because he'd blocked her.

Just do it, her mind urged, stuff them all in your mouth and it'll be over - you'll lose all the pain and tiredness, replaced by a trifling presence.

Doitdoitdoitdoitdoit.

But something else was stopping her, something in the back of her mind screaming DON'T.

Almost automatically her thumb traveled on the phone screen until it made a stop next to Dad's number.

She remembered what the school counselor told her. "Call your dad, or us."

Except she didn't want to call the school counselor. Because he'd just think she was another baggage weighing on his shoulder - like how everyone thought of her. Sick of everyone's disgust, when the counselor told her the ways to contact him, she'd tossed it to the back of her mind.

And now she missed her dad. So badly that it hurt to even breathe.

Callhimcallhimcallhimcallhim.

After five rings, the familiar voice hit the phone.

"So -"

"Dad," she managed through her cracked voice.

" - rry, the number you're dialing is -"

Busy.

She knew it wouldn't be that easy to hear her father's voice. She knew it would always be "busy". She knew her dad would never have the extra time for her. A rush of heat coursed through her veins.

It took her a moment to realize it was anger.

Her dad, a man who only cared for her out of appearance. What he didn't know was that she had been lying to him for ages. He would occasionally ask her "you feeling okay?" And she'd answer "yes". Then he'd walk away as if he were all busy with his work again. She'd cry under the blankets and wake up with puffy eyes, but he didn't see - at all.

Where was her mother, you ask?

Charged with murder before committing suicide in jail.

Oh.

In her letter, she'd said she was doing this for her daughter's good. But what came after was nowhere near the word.

Funeral. Mourning. Bed. Weeping. School. Bullying. Pointing. Naming. Arguing. Sobbing. Sleeping. Crying.

Almost everything she did became a tearful outburst.

Her brother? He was reckless and ignorant - everything listed under "How To Be A Bad Teen". After Mom died, his behavior became worse and unimaginable.

Skipping school. Staying out. Stealing goods. Video games, video games, video games.

He stayed out of Dad's reach, his teachers' and his friends'. No one knew what he did during days and where he went at night. He would occasionally come home and be greeted by dad's shouts -and he shouted back - all while she locked herself in the bathroom, trying hard to block out the angry voices downstairs.

Of course that didn't work. Not a bit.

She'd thought everything would be a million times better when the new boy walked through the doors of her homeroom. He had talked to her and soon started texting her every night. He made her feel like maybe she didn't have such a dreadful life after all - maybe things were destined to become better. They shared memories together, unforgettable ones.

It didn't take her long to admit she'd liked him.

To her surprise, he felt the same way. And they started seeing each other.

Eh, too bad the happily-ever-after scenario didn't last long - or it never occurred to them.

Because he'd found out about her. 

Not her. Her story.

The burning little match dimmed and the world felt like it was repeating history again. The agonizing pain of feeling abandoned, heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Her world darkened.

Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy?

She was back to the starting point, where the only emotions she felt were grief, helplessness, and pain.

Searching.

Drawers. Closets. Shelves. Bags. Pillows. Cupboards.

Found them.

Bright bottles, pale pills, water.

Bottles.

Lots of bottles.

Water.

Gallons of water.

Pale steam. All over the mirror.

Phone? Hurled across the room.

Photos? Torn and scattered all over. 

Thought?

Empty.