FACELESS

Chapter 24

AFTER

I'm going to kill myself the next time I call Bailey.

This is true, in two ways— one, it's pathetic. Because everytime I reach out I get nothing in return. My hands remain empty, grasping at air, at nothing but false hope that bloomed itself in my chest every few months or so, and I lay in my bed, imagining the good and good but not the bad and the worst scenarios. Life never goes the way I want it to. And I don't have anything else to live for.

Two— when we fell out, I mentioned that I never would bother her again, except if I wanted to kill myself and wanted someone to stop me. She would be the last person I'll call before I do it. Now I don't even think she'll pick up my call. I find myself to be the most despicable person now, alive. And if I called her, I would just be a bother.

I curse at myself, for throwing away the pills a few years ago, when I believed Zac was something to me, and that I wasn't nothing to him.

The hospital is quiet at the pharmacy area, as I sit at one corner, in my thin, blue sweater, and a pair of shorts. My long hair is draped in front of my left cheek, blocking the scar from view, and my head is held down low. I stare at the patients coming into the waiting area, holding with their red tipped fingers, a slip of paper with their queue number. I stare at mine, and I stare so hard at the numbers they begin to warp around my nails. Then I blink, and it disappears. My body feels numb, and I feel cold. I feel alone. Lonely. Like I will never be whole again, like I am empty. My eyes drift to the faint lines on my thighs, and I almost laugh. I used to draw on my skin with blades, thinking that pain could heal me. Now pain is all I know, and the scar on my face only makes me more angry. I was so foolish.

"Audrey?"

I turn around to the voice, and a nurse is staring at me. The polka-dots pants nurse. I don't remember her name, my mind is so numbed I barely can think.

"Audrey, oh my goodness." she walks up to me, and I nearly flinch away from her nearing footsteps. "I thought it would be too late for me to say bye to you."

"Hi." I reply, but the voice doesn't sound like mine. I haven't spoken since the phone call with Bailey, and that was weeks ago. I nod to the doctors words and shake my head at his questions. My voice sounds so unfamiliar I almost doubt that my existence is real.

"Are you waiting for your medicine?" she asks, and then she takes a seat next to mine. I shrink away. And she freezes, pausing, then smiles up at me again. "Are you cold?"

"Yes." I say, and then I turn my head away from her and stare up at the monitor for my number.

"But my number is nearer here." I say, and then I stare at my queue number again. SX628. SX628.

Blink. SX628.

"See, it's here." I say, and I stand up, my sweater feels like nothing on my body, and I take a step towards the counter. I can feel her gaze on my thighs, but I welcome that. I rather her look and scrutinise the scars and pain on my thighs than the ones in my eyes. I rather people stare at my legs than my face.

"Audrey..."

"I have to go," I say, and I turn my head slightly at her, and my hair swings, unravelling the scar on my cheek. She doesn't react. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Of course," she says, and she begins to stand. "I mean, yes— that's my job as a nurse." she continues. "I hope you're okay."

"I'm not." I say, bluntly. And she blinks, almost shocked. "I'm not and I don't think I'll ever be. But thanks."

"Look, Audrey," she walks up to me, and my eyes flash to the monitor for my number. It's still there. "If you need any help... this is against protocols but—" she brings a hand out from her uniform pocket. It's a slip of paper, with jagged handwritings running down vertically. "It's my number. If you ever need anything..."

"Thanks." I say, and I take it. "But I might not
use it, I'll call you for an address to send a letter to instead."

She looks confused, but I'm lazy to explain. The weight of my own phone is heavy in my pockets. I turn away without another word, and head towards the counter with my number. The lady stares up at me, stretched her hand out, and I pass the queue number to her, and tuck the little slip of paper the nurse passed to me in my pocket.

If I forget it, then it's fate. If I don't, maybe it's miracle.

She passes me my medicine, three tubs of ointment. A few bottles of pills? For sleep, and anxiety. She points at instruction pasted on the side of each tub, and instructs me to use it three times a day. I thank her, and then I stand with the bag of medicine in my hands, and I walk away. I flimsily throw the sweater's hood over my head, and I turn my head downwards as I walk to the outside of the hospital. When the door opens, the summer heat of Singapore hits me first with the hot and humid air. I swat at the rays filtering through the trees, and take another step forward.

A lady waiting for a taxi stares at me. And my head sinks even lower; so low that I wished the ground would open up and pull me under. First person to see me outside of the hospital, and its already starting to be like this. I imagine seeing all my classmates staring at me like that, and I shrink up even further into my flimsy hoodie. Which reminds me, I'll probably end up getting more hoodies and wearing them to school. If the teachers are nice enough, maybe I could wear my hair down at school to cover the scar.

I stand quietly at the side of the door, watching people enter in and out of the hospital. The boy wearing a school uniform, the lady carrying a bag of groceries, a grandmother with a cane. I wonder about the stories behind the person, and then my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Arriving in blue car, Miss.

I power down my phone, leaning back onto the wall behind me.

It still feels heavy, no matter how much I look at it. My social media's, the phone numbers of my parents, my... friends. My teachers. I want to get rid of it. I will, get rid of it. The plan? I would get an old phone from 2012, just for calling. Or a buzzer for my driver. Maybe Bailey will think I died. Then she will—

I'm so privileged, I think to myself, cutting away my own thoughts. At least I have a driver, though my face is half gone. The wind blow again, pushing my hair away from the scar. I grab my hair to one side and look down at my feet. I have it bad, but I don't deserve to be in pity. I don't deserve it.

A car stops in front of me. Blue. And I grab the handle of the door, opening it. I edge myself to the most right side of the car, and mutter a good morning under my breath.

"Good morning Miss, good to see you after so long." My driver says. I don't look up. I know his voice and his face. It's Matthew, a 49 years old man working as a driver for my family, with three children and him as a sole bread winner. I know my dad doesn't pay him well enough for him to support his family well.
And I hate my dad for it. I hate myself for it.

On the way home, we drive past my... school. Or old school, I don't know what I should call it. But when the familiar logo of the school pops up, I sink myself into the seats, and I unbuckle my seatbelt and lay myself across the seats, the pill bottles in my pocket, digging into my thighs. Until, finally, I grab one of them out, and I stare at it as the car parks itself into the driveway.

"We're home, Miss."

Home.

I stare at the pills bottles in my hands, and think about the number of bottles in my pocket. They made a mistake. A huge mistake.