Trigger warning: abuse, drug use, suicide by overdosing.
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She was once a girl who had it all. The looks, the smarts, the money. She was happy.
No. No, she was never happy. That's a lie. Camilla Rosenberg was never happy. That was just a myth made up by the fake, hypocritical popular crowd at Woodland High School. "But she was so happy!" "She had everything, why would she do this?" "What a selfish bitch! Doesn't she understand how much pain she has caused?" Those were all thrown around after Camilla committed suicide by overdosing on pills; Xanax, Ritalin, Zoloft, and anything else she could get on the streets for less than thirty bucks.
After years of abuse by her own mother, Camilla had enough. Enough of the fighting, enough of the rolling punches. She had run away many times throughout the years but the police always found her and brought her back "home". She tried to escape by staying over a friends houses but their parents would politely tell her that she was overstaying her visit. Even though she would make it very noticeable how upset she was when she left, the parents felt no sympathy for the foul mouthed, seemingly narcissistic girl.
The seventeen year old Camilla got involved with older kids; Most of them just out of high school, college students, or dropouts. They took drugs together, drank and partied. Camilla was the hottest lay. She was easy, as they liked to say. Her dead expression got worse over these days but the pills were the only thing keeping her alive, strangely enough. Camilla wore her makeup heavy, her hair long and bleached blonde. Her skin was pale from staying indoors, she was thin from not eating.
But eventually, her mother stopped the cash flow. Camilla was forced to find alternative ways to get money. She began to strip at the local nightclub, even going as low as to offer blowjobs in the bathroom for fifteen bucks. She was becoming a parent's worse nightmare. The strip club was a shady underground one, taking place in the basement of a large home. The owners didn't care that she was barely eighteen. They just wanted satisfied customers.
Her previous friends started to fade away. They offered no help to the girl who was screaming for help, for understanding. They talked about her behind her back. "She's become such a slut!" "She hangs out with druggies." "It's hard to believe....She was so hot."
Camilla began to use cocaine; God what a rush! Matt, one of the owners of the strip club, introduced her to it.
She was bringing over six hundred dollars a day while stripping. Men really liked her. She had long, lean legs, small but ample breasts. The dead look in her eyes seemed to intrigue some of them. "What could have happened to her for her to have that look?"
One man wanted to save her. He saw something in her; Her saw her screaming. He heard her loud and clear. He was a tall business man with brown hair, dark and handsome eyes. She never knew him by any other name than Mr. H. He would have her come into the VIP room and instead of getting his own private show, he gave her business cards. Numbers to people and non-profits that could help her. Numerous times, Camilla had said "no thanks" but Mr. H insisted. "Please....Please, just call them. See what they are about."
She would roll her eyes and sigh and promise him but she never did. Yet, Camilla would cry at night thinking about the fact that at least someone care. At least someone wanted to help her. She kept wondering why she never took his help. If she did....Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could really help her. Maybe---Just maybe---She could have a better life.
But no. No, her bad thoughts always got the best of her. "Better life? For you? Yeah right. That'll be the day."
On Thanksgiving Day, Camilla called her mother, asking her if it was okay for her to come home. Her mother tore right into her; "How dare you!" "You are selfish for leaving!" "Don't ever come home!" "After everything I've done for you?" "I should have aborted you, Camilla. I was gonna but your father convinced me not to."
Camilla, somehow, managed to hold in all of her tears. She hung up, went home, snorted some cocaine, took the pill cocktail, drank a whole bottle of whiskey and died alone.
* * *
Mr. H came into the strip club, a clip of money and a plane ticket for Camilla. When he couldn't find her, he went over to the bartender.
"Hey, Mikey. Where is the blonde dancer? You know, the tall one with the raccoon eyes?"
"She died, Hamish. Suicide two days ago." Mikey, the bartender, informed him. "Poor kid. She was a sweetheart, too."
Mr. H's eyes fell to the floor. He was too late to save the girl.
* * *
The school held a little memorial for the once popular, beautiful cheerleader who had it all. People cried, people brought roses though she would have preferred something a little less stereotypical. Teachers shook their heads, sadly at the memory of the smart girl who always had her hand raised to answer a question.
Her mother didn't attend her funeral. Only the popular crowd, some teachers, and the druggies showed up, expressing guilt for her death. "She was such a nice person, how could we have introduced her to the drugs?" "Why couldn't we have helped her?" "Why didn't we say anything?"
Age old questions.
Once the people cleared out and the dirt was being thrown over Camilla's mahogany casket, Mr. H was the only one left. He stared sadly at the tombstone: Camilla Jane Rosenberg, born June 14th 1995, died November 27th 2014.
"Shit. She was so young, huh?" One of the grave diggers commented, wiping his forehead as he looked over at Mr. H. "Were you her daddy?"
"No. No, she was a friend of mine." Mr. H sighed.
The grave digger nodded. "Hey, aren't you that lawyer? Ya know, the one on TV and such?"
"Yes I am."
"Was she one of ya's cases?"
"Yes she was."
The grave digger nodded again before getting back to work.
Mr. H swallowed hard as he pulled the plane ticket out of his pocket. "Say, you think you can put this in there?"
"What? But this is a plane ticket!"
"I know. She was supposed to have it."
The grave digger shrugged. "Sure. I guess so." He throw it on top of the casket.
Mr. H took in a deep breath as he turned away, seeing a lady by a car. She had a stone face but she resembled the dead girl in so many ways. Mr. H wanted to say sorry but instead, he brushed past her.
