Beverly Hills: Season 3

Season 3, Episode 18: The Same Mistakes

~~~(A Gun In My Hand by Dorothy)~~~
   Emerson paces back and forth in his small cell at the juvenile detention center. He's pretty sure he's going more insane now than he was while he shot up the hotel. He leans his back against the wall, closing his eyes and wishing he was in the mental ward at this point. They would at least be forcing him to toss back pills so that he can't think but who knows if that will even work? His thoughts are so heavy that he's still having them, even weeks of going to therapy. He's still having these thoughts about the shooting- thoughts of guilt.
   "I hate this." Emerson mumbles to himself, pacing back and forth again. He wants it to be lunch time already or something so that he can get the shit knocked out of him like two days ago. He continued to antagonize one of the other inmates until he finally popped. That punch to the face felt good as hell though. "I need out of here." Emerson mumbles to himself. He doesn't even want to leave this place to be free. He wants to leave so someone from Seaview can shoot him or beat him to death. That would be good too. Brooklyn worms her way into Emerson's head and he thinks about what she did when she found out Cambridge died. Emerson was the one to stop him from telling her how he felt. At the time, he didn't want anyone else to feel happiness. Since he couldn't no one else could either.
   Emerson snatches the sheet off his bed, twisting up in a sharp not before eyeing the metal pipes above the ceiling. Apparently they were in the middle of doing maintenance in here before Emerson showed up. Looks like they didn't finish the ceiling. Emerson bites his lower lip, standing on his bed and reaching up towards where the ceiling should be as far as he can. He uses the sheet to tie both ends around one of the thicker metal rods, hoping this can hold his weight. His feet sink into the dingy mattress but he stretches his arms as high as they can, wrapping the sheet up as tight as possible. he takes the other end, slowly wrapping it around his neck. He winces at the new knot around his neck, slowly moving the knot on the pipe towards the opposite wall as he walks with it, towards the edge of the bed. He takes a breath. Everything would be so much easier for everyone if he wasn't here. Maybe if he gets to heaven, Cambridge can beat the shit out of him for killing him. Or maybe he's going to hell. That's fine too though. It's well deserved. Emerson steps off the bed, his feet hanging about a foot over the floor, the sheet pulling at his neck. Emerson tries breathing through his mouth, spots covering his vision. He grabs the knot around his neck, surprised at how well this is working but also feeling a little panicked.
   Suddenly, the pipe holding him up breaks, water shooting out and Emerson tumbling to the concrete floor. Emerson breathes heavily, the water pouring on top of him as he lies on the floor, closing his eyes and wishing there was enough water for him to drown.

   Brooklyn stares at herself in the bathroom off her bedroom, her brown hair straightened just pass her boobs. She's wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, her eyes red from crying for a while in the shower. She thought she got over these tears after bawling her eyes out at Cambridge's shrine but they just keep coming. She often skips school in case they start back up. That would be embarrassing as hell if someone saw her just break down in the middle of class. Brooklyn stares into her brown eyes, her arced eyebrows, her thin lips. She drums her fingers against the counter, needing to change something- ANYTHING. She opens the top drawer on the right side of the counter, digging through some of her lotions and hair products until she finds a pair of scissors.
   Brooklyn shuts the drawer, holding the scissors in her hands as she looks at her face. Screw everything. Screw death, screw guns, screw a Crawford, screw life. You know what, screw this hair too. Brooklyn takes a clump of hair, snipping it off and letting it fall to the floor. She takes another chunk, sawing the scissors through it. She's not too sure WHY she's doing this but she almost feels like she has to. She just needs a change and if cutting her hair off will help her get that change she needs then she'll do it. Brooklyn continues snipping, every long lock of brown she has spilling from her head. Hair falls onto the counter, into the sink and to the floor but she's not too worried about cleaning it up. She looks a lot more sane this way.