Falling Colors

Chapter Twenty-Nine: You Do It For Yourself

Two weeks after…

    

      I sat on the living room couch in a trance; the same trance I had been in since I was brought home from the hospital.  The only things I would do were move when my dad gave me a gentle shove and eat when my stomach was hurting from hunger. 

    

     My dad and Leigh were still worried about me and had all my doctors on speed dial.  I hadn’t been back to the hospital, but nurses were constantly in and out of the house, per my father’s request.

     “Odette?” came the gentle call of Leigh.  She had been talking to me like I was an infant since I came home.  “Sharon is here to see you,” she continued when I didn’t answer.  “You remember her right?” she asked coming up beside me, an earnest look on her face. 

      Through the corner of my eye I saw Leigh motion towards the front hall.  Sharon came shuffling in a solemn look on her face.  I could tell she was trying to cover it up with a small smile, but her eyes gave it away.  They were red rimmed and glassy.

       Sharon was dressed in her usual flower vintage clothing; her red hair braided messily.  Everything about her was the same.  Even though my life had taken a 180 hers had not even swerved.  Figures.

       “Hey O!” she said too enthusiastically.  “I got you this!”  She held out a potted cactus plant that had a pink flower on it. 

      When she saw I wasn’t going to take it she set it down on the coffee table, fiddling with it for a few minutes, trying to make it stand in the perfect direction.

       “So graduation was a drag,” she began trying to sound like the thoughts running through her head weren’t there.  “You would have hated it.  Mr. Richard gave this overly sappy speech that not even parents believed.  It was absolute shit.”

     For thirty minutes Sharon dragged on about everything that happened at school since I was gone.  Most of it was about graduation parties I missed and how some girl or guy got so shitfaced they did something totally embarrassing and would be remembered by everyone for life.  Pitiful.

       After the last story about some girl trying to pee like a guy into the toilet with an audience of plenty, we were silent for quite some time.  I picked at my hands, ignoring the stare Sharon was casting at my bandaged wrists.

       My wrists were doing better.  They didn’t need bandages every day now.  It was most just an angry red scab now, no open wound.

       “You know—when I—when I first heard from Leigh,” she paused catching her breath, trying to keep her tears in check.  “I was… I was angry, Odette.  I was so angry.”  She let out a bitter laugh and wiped the tears that trailed down her face.

     Sharon moved her gaze from my wrists to my face now, trying to look into my eyes.  “Do you know what it feels like when my best friend couldn’t even tell she was depressed?”  She searched my face.  “It felt like I was a horrible person.  It made me stop believing I was the person I thought I was.”

      This isn’t about you, I thought to myself anger rising. Stop trying to make everything about you.

      “You hurt me, Odette.  You hate me, and you couldn’t even tell me it to my face.  Instead you go and do this.”  She holds her hands up then drops them back to her lap.  “You couldn’t tell me you were depressed because you hated me.  And to prove that you hated me you go and do this.  You must have hated me a whole lot to put me through all this pain and confusion.”  She took a deep breath and put her head in her hands.  “I can only imagine what your dad and Leigh are feeling – you must feel something beyond hate for them.”

      This isn’t about you or them, I thought, digging my finger nails into the palm of my hand. This is about me.  I did it for me.

      Unfolding her hands from her lap, she stood up casting me one last sorrowful look.  “You know it is really hard for me to feel sorry for you when you go and do something like this.  I actually think I hate you, Odette.” 

       Then she left, but before she shut the front door behind her she called. “Your dad should be the one giving the silent treatment, not you.” 

      Click. She was gone.

      I clenched and unclenched my hands feeling anger go through me.  She had no right to hate me for what I had done.  I did it because of me, not because of them.  That is the thing about killing yourself.  The people who are left behind think you did it because of them, but really – you do it for yourself.

      It is no lie when they say it is the most selfish act you can perform.

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