I stare tentatively at the small bottle in my hand. As I shake it around, the opaque white pills inside clatter around and against each other. I have the weirdest urge to gulp it all down - to die by my own hands - though I resist it. I pop the lid off the orange container and take two pills. It’s the correct dosage of antidepressants, and the two oblong tablets slip down my throat without any effort.
Looking up from my lap, I see Isabelle walking up to me, her eyebrow curiously arched upward. She sits down on the bench next to me and takes off her backpack to set it down onto the concrete, letting the heavy bag lean against the brick wall of our school. I try to slip the bottle of pills inside the side compartment of my backpack, hoping she didn’t see it.
“Hey, Nikki!” she says, smiling at me. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m great.” I think I might’ve said that a bit too monotonously. I smile back at her, and I don’t know whether I’ve just lied or told the truth.
“The medication’s working, right?” Her voice pauses a bit between words, as if she doesn’t expect for it to. I’ve been taking the pills for about three months now.
I shrug. “Maybe. What do you think?” Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve been as gloomy as I used to be.
But then again, I imagine the pills are just clouding up my true emotions behind thick clouds of fake optimism.
“Yeah, I definitely think so,” she says. “Could I ask you a question about your depression, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you depressed? You never told me.”
I think about it. Should I tell her about Dakota and his friends, who attack me every day with their knives and their lighters? Should I tell her when they go after me when school ends and Isabelle’s already left?
No.
Although I hide them from even myself, my suicidal thoughts bite at me every now and then, when I see a knife, when I take my medicine. They still do, but not as often. But they still exist within me.
I don’t want to burden her with the truth.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I say. As I do, I roll up my sleeve just a bit in the most inconspicuous way possible to make sure that my cuts and bruises and burns from Dakota’s attacks are covered.
“Oh.” Isabelle sighs, looking down at the ground. After a few moments of silence, she looks at a car in the distance, which is driving at our direction. “Bye! My mom’s here to pick me up.”
“See ya.”
“And don’t you dare do anything dangerous with those pills, okay?” she adds with a final note. Then she gets up and takes her backpack off the ground, slinging it over her shoulder and walks away.
I’m alone again. I look around. Kids gather in small groups scattered around the entrance of the school, talking amongst themselves. The air is filled with chatter. I wish I were one of them. I wish I had friends to talk to.
I look beside me, at the empty space on the bench where Isabelle sat at just a few minutes ago.
Wishes don’t come true, I think with a scoff.
