"YOU'RE ONLY FIFTEEN!" Was the talk I expected to hear. Well, mom, I'm turning that big ol'16 in three weeks tops, hope you haven't forgotten. I expected the talk about mental health, how I'm still not taking meds... but they don't know that because I'm too scared to share it unless they went through my journal then that's a no go. But no my mother had other plans about hitting the soft spots, or more like slashing them open and watching me bleed.
"It's about Charlie."
"I thought that name was banned in this household." That dick-bags name made chills run down my spine, coming from moms mouth made matters even worse. He's chilling, baby blue eyes, dashing grin, made me spin straight into depression. She flinched at how quickly I threw her into the dust almost knocking myself out. I ripped into my grilled cheese in an attempt to not be the centre of attraction although who else would be? Surely not the muted TV as she sighs and pulls a photo card from behind her back like a magician. She held it out to me to show off her aces, pretty expensive deck she has. I looked at her, the serious twitch her lips gave made me quiver. I looked at the card, the person on it made me choke down cheese. Oh god, kill me.
"Why was this in the trash?" It was Dick-bag, Charlie. The drawing I recently attempted to dispose of and I guess I failed. So while I was off mourning pickles she was sifting through my trash? I didn't blame her. In my trash was sometimes treasures... I guess he was one. Or maybe it was just the fact that it was artwork on expensive photo cardstock laying in nothing but crumpled school work, that's what I surely hoped. "What happened with you and him? Is he not your friend?" My mom shot bullets in my head. Not my friend put it too lightly, he wasn't mine but he could've been, but I'm convinced he's blind, may be guilty. We used to be close, we were never two feet apart but... time led to distance, distance led to worse. I couldn't keep on tumbling off the high bridge of doubt my mind liked to create. I wish I had more time with him, our last goodbye was lost in failing trumpet solos. I despised him like the devil because there was no way he was human, his feelings seemed fake.
"No, he's not my friend," I stressed, rolling my eyes and setting down my plate before I felt like smashing it all to bits the way he did to my heart. I tried not to let everything set in, having a panic attack to end off my day was not something I looked forward to.
"Why, what happened?" I never wanted to talk about what happened, I didn't even know the why. Why the hell did she ask when she knows I won't say any more than a quarter of what happened? half the time it wasn't true.
"He simply... drifted off!" My heart sunk when the words tumbled from my tongue, twisting my head away just to dispel the worrying look my mom's fine wrinkles gave. Too harsh? I never really admitted it, only the countless conversations with myself would admit it. "He started acting up, he wouldn't talk to me... he couldn't talk to me." He's guilty. My voice trembled, it couldn't do pristine at the moment I needed it most. I gulped at the knot cartwheeling in my throat. My lungs collapsed as I drifted from the present. My eyes likely glazed over as my mom sweetly called me back to the fluffy-candy-now,
"Chloe... I'm sorry about that." Sympathy made me teary-eyed, sniffly, shaky, all of the above. I'd wish she'd stop asking about Charlie, sure he looked sweet but my parents didn't know him at all... he made my life a living hell, made me shake my head and give myself a scan. How much did a lobotomy cost? Could I somehow cut out the part that made me feel for him? I scuttled away like a crab on all fours, kept my head down and ran to my room. I didn't even flail a limb or let out a high note to end off the conversation. I even left my poor grilled cheese behind... and my poor mother. More adrenaline, more bottomless falling, more loathing, hatred. I WANTED TO DIE, I was scared of it... but I was more scared of waking up in a hospital bed still conscious, still breathing, in an effort to kill myself over one meaningless human.
Like they say, "You're only fifteen."
YOU ARE READING
Mid-Life Crisis (WIP)
Teen Fiction"A work on progress should be put on my life!" Chloe is a fifteen year old girl who struggles into a new lifestyle in efforts to get rid of her grizzy past lover. Along the way her summer expirences are getting interesting. She gets thrown into the...
