I awoke with a start, sweat trickling down my back and forehead as I trembled. The world was still spinning around me. I had no control over anything. I never had.
The tears came once more under my closed eyelids. This was a daily occurrence, and happened multiple times a day. Depression flooded through my veins, anxiety dancing through my head.
I couldn't recall the events of the day before. It all felt unreal. It felt like a fever dream. Was I really there? Was I even on earth? Was I ever on earth? Who was I, really? Yes, my name is Betty Cooper. I was 25 years old, and I lived in a small town called Riverdale. But who really was I?
This question remained unanswered, leaving me lingering in the state of perplexity and sorrow, all senses of reality withdrawn from every perspective of my mind.
It had always been that way. It always would be.
What had I done the day before? I was sore, exhausted, drained of every ounce of energy left within me. All of this more so than usual. I couldn't bother to care. Did anything really matter anymore?
Nobody cared. I was alone. I deserved to be alone. I wasn't the perfect little rich girl that everyone was led to believe that I was. My mom had always been a bitch, never allowing me to have actual friends or do basic everyday things that average teenagers would be allowed to do. And even then, no matter how hard I tried, I had never been enough for her.
Having always been under the micromanagement of my mother, I never made any friends, not even in college, thought it wasn't even always her fault. Nobody cared enough to ask how I was doing when I walked through the halls with tear-stained cheeks. Nobody ever offered to sit with me at lunch when I sat alone, wallowing in self-pity. Not one person had ever offered to become my friend.
Perhaps it was for the best. I would've only inflicted pain on them. All I've ever done is destroy everything positive around me, whether accidental, or just with my mood. Somehow, whether people care or not, my existence pointedly wilting the atmosphere.
I finally brought myself to opening my eyes, almost jolting up in shock. It wasn't my room. Every item of furniture was different, and arranged differently. The room was formatted differently, and the doors were on different walls. My new walls, bright pink and yellow, contrasted the distressing navy blue tone of my old one. Where the hell was I? I had no clue.
Whatever. It doesn't even fucking matter. Nothing does. Nothing ever does. My silent cry transformed into a sob as I pulled myself out of my bed groggily, trudging over to the new bathroom. Ew. Pastel blue. So... cheery and optimistic. What is happening?
The unfamiliar environment didn't help to improve my state. Panic and anxiety continued to grow within me, overtaking me as my sails gradually grew louder.
⚠️TW⚠️
I practically threw the cabinets below the sink open, shoveling through the contents in search for the harmful object that my body associated with an action that could be considered addictive. Ever since I had escaped the hell hole that was my mother's house, she couldn't stop me from hurting myself; from denting our precious reputation.
I couldn't find it. I couldn't find a fucking razor. What kind of bathroom didn't have a razor? This isn't even my bathroom... I continued to rummage, my rapid breathing morphing into hyperventilation as my search continued. It was incredibly frustrating.
I gave up, as I always did with everything, ready to admit defeat as I slumped against the wall, before I came up with one last idea. Scissors... Knives... Kitchen... My sobs subsided, my mind suddenly numbed, as if a shot of novocaine entered through my veins. I swiped my tears, hobbling to my feet before I rushed down the stairs as quickly as I could, not having much trouble finding my way around this new, unfamiliar vicinity.
After pulling several drawers open, I had finally found the knife drawer, an assortment staring back up at me. I grabbed the one that looked the sharpest, the most painful, hurriedly placing upon the skin on the underside of my arm, ready to slice it open like I had done hundreds of times before...
...But the doorbell rang.
