𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐣𝐮𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 ❨ original ❩

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

A COUPLE OF WEEKS AFTER MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed. I took drugs and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time thinking about death. And my dad. My old beat dad who I haven't even seen in four years. I guess it's one thing to say you hate your dad. Everyone's dad is an asshole sometimes. But it's different to realize you're never going to wake up one morning and have a dad who isn't an asshole. This then lead my mother to feel forced to send me to a Support Group.

The support Group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every Tuesday night at seven in a cafe on Wicker Street. Stephen, the Support Group Leader and only person over eighteen in the room, talked about his own issues with alcohol abuse and the numerous times he tried to kill himself, before we make our way around the circle.

First, we introduced ourselves: Name. Age. Your issues that make you screwed up in your head. And how we were doing that day. "I'm Rue," I'd say when they'd get to me. "I'm seventeen and I'm an addict. And I'm great."

The only redeeming facet of the group was a girl named Cassie. Her blonde hair was poker-straight and pulled back into a low pony-tail. She wore little make-up and was often stern, rarely joining in the jokes of the other people in the group. To be taken seriously she didn't have to be their equal, she had to be better and beyond reproach.

She went to my school before she moved last year. I remember getting high with her at a party, I can't remember whose party it was though. I was high or in rehab for most of sophmore year.

She wasnt a drug addict or addicted to cigarettes. She was suicidal. With three failed attempts.

Truthfully, it always shocked me when I realized that I wasn't the only person in the world who thought and felt such strange and awful things.

Cassie and I communicated almost exclusively through sighs. Each time someone discussed how long they've gone without snorting a line or contemplating putting a gun against their head, she'd glance over at me and sigh ever so slightly. I'd shake my head microscopically and exhale in response.

Stephen pays extra attention to Cassie, almost as if she's got a gun hiding in her back pocket ready to pull it out at any second. I don't get the big deal, personally. There's death all around us. Everywhere we look. One point eight people kill themselves every second. We just don't pay attention. Until we do.

It's another day at the Support Group. A brown haired boy is slumped against the wall, his windswept locks matted and dull. He hasn't seen me yet so I gaze freely. He seems like a nice boy. Although I've learnt seeming and being are two different things. He's not particularly special looking, but to me he stands out. I was quite sure I'd never seen him before. His skin is so pale it has a waxy appearance and at first I thought he was dead. But as I approach I can hear the rattle of the boy's breathing.

He was only one or two years older than me at most. His dark hair furled down the nape of his neck while his fringe covered the right side of his face. His eyes were bold, hazel, like that of a child. And yet they carried this stubborn hatred of the whole world.

Suddenly, he was staring at me. And I looked away consciously aware of my myriad insufficiencies. I wasn't looking my best. I was taller than average and my hair was in an up-do, yet some still remained cascading down my face, because I had dispersed of my hairpins. I was wearing old jeans and an old burgundy hoodie, that once was tight but now hung off my shoulders. And yet - I cut a glance at him, and his eyes were still on me.

I trudged to the back corner of the cafe, sitting at a small table beside Cassie. I glanced again. He was still watching me.

Staring isn't quite the word for what he was doing, though he'd fit the dictionary definition to a tee. His eyes rest, not unblinking but slowed; yet the effect is soft and inviting instead of harsh. Perhaps it is his lips that give away his intention, not quite smiling but tilting as if they mean to.

After a while the boy smiled, and then finally his hazel eyes glance away.

Stephen continued with the introduction and then finally it was time for 'personal talks.'

People say things like "I cut myself," or "I'm depressed." As if these are the things that define them. One poor bastard is ADHD, bipolar, and to top it all off has some sort of anxiety disorder. I'm the only one who is just Rue.

"Cassie, perhaps you would like to start off today. You mentioned your feelings of guilt yesterday, as if you were being selfish for attempting to take your own life?"

After a few seconds Cassie turns her head to the window, eyes just as still; then she speaks with the same robotic tone I've heard her use every session. "When my sister died in the accident, you should have seen the flowers and the sympathy cards." She holds up her wrists, and even across the table I can see the scars. "But when I nearly died, no flowers or cards were sent. No casseroles were baked for my mum. Suddenly, I was selfish and crazy for wasting my life when my sister had hers taken away."

And with that she makes an unnatural turn to the left that allows her gaze never to meet mine, picks up her keys and bag from the table beside the small cup of coffe and leaves.

Well that was dramatic.

Time flowed like cement during the support group. I checked my cell for the time. A minute had passed since I last checked an hour ago, or so it seemed. Sitting there with nothing to stare at but a wall with chipped cream paint was excruciatingly dull. It was so pointless too.

Stephen then turned his gaze to me. "Rue, how are you doing?"

I released a heavy sigh before removing my eyes from the wall. "I go through phases where I think everything's going to be okay and the sky is blue and stuff and I can feel the sun and the air going in and out of my lungs and I think, life is good." I continued twisting the strings of my hoodie as I sat slouched in the chair.

"But then every time, I also know deep down that the darkness is coming. And it's going to keep coming. And when I'm in the darkness I'm going to screw up everything."

"Would you like to explore and venture into the story of why you began taking drugs in the first place?"

"It's a long story." I replied shortly.

"How about the short version?"

"I mean... Heroines just got a great fucking personality."

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 !
this is the first chapter of
'underneath their marijuana
moon!' i hope you enjoyed it
because i've got big plans
for both of my original stories.