Freed [N.H.]

Ch. 7

I’d been lying on my bed since I ran off from Niall. Normally I would hide someplace else rather than my room, but I just wanted to lie down.

It’s been ten hours since the whole mess occurred. Niall and his band mates most likely were gone. Visiting hours were over obviously. I will probably never see him again. I really just need to forget about today and move on.

I sighed and rolled over to my side. My back now facing the one guard from earlier, who was passed out in a chair blocking the door. I was curled up into a ball looking out my small bared window. I laid there, content for a moment on top of my blankets, in my black sweats and green long sleeve shirt. I really was pathetic enough to wear green just to think of Niall. I’m a joke.

My hands slipped under my pillow and my fingertips grazed across the cold metal of the scissors. Nobody has found them yet. I considered myself very lucky for that. I had my tool. Now I just needed to find the time I could use it.

My thoughts drifted back to when I first tried to kill myself. Before coming to West London rehab that is. The attempt that landed me here wasn’t my first attempt to kill myself. Oh god no, it was my third. It was pathetic, like me, that I couldn’t kill myself properly. It was like something was willing me to stay here.

My life had been horrid since I was young. When I got here, I was sixteen. My first attempt was on my fifteenth birthday. Great gift, right? After a large argument with the she devil I have to call my mother, I sprinted to my room and locked myself in. My mother and all her colleagues who came for my so called birthday party stayed downstairs gossiping, talking about how troubled I was, and sipping on bitter, expensive wine.

I cried my eyes out while lying on my bed for a good two hours. My thoughts wandered from what I could of done different to how I could get back at her. Though the best idea I had was to kill myself.

I sat up when I had that thought that night.

Kill myself?

But why? And how?

Obviously killing yourself over one stupid fight seemed drastic, didn’t it?  But then again it wasn’t one fight. It was the reoccurring one. It was the long nights where I was hit. It was the many arguments I had with my mother about my father. It was the disapproving look I received from my mother’s parents. The shunning I got from my old friends. That shake of the head I got from school teachers. It was everything!

Every aspect of my life seemed shitty.

So why stay?

What’s sad is it only took my thirty minutes to decide to go through with it. Some people say they’ve struggled with the suicidal thoughts for years. And sure, I’ve occasionally had a few of my own. “What if I jump in front of that bus?” “What if I just stayed underwater?” “What if I accidently took too many pills?” I’d been depressed for a good amount of time, so why not kill myself? Nobody would miss me that’s for sure.

I waited that night, until the last Jimmy Choo high heel clinked out of our home and my mother’s bedroom door clicked shut for the night. I wiped my eyes from the tears and shakily took out the suicide note I’d written an hour earlier. I laid it out gently on my pillow before quietly tip toeing downstairs.

Looking back on it now, that probably wasn’t the best place to put a note. Nobody would see it unless they go to my room. So my mother would see my dead body, then probably hours or days later see the note. That wasn’t important at the time though.

I looked throughout the kitchen for the largest knife. I was fifteen and dramatic. I wanted that big knife to slice my wrists with and cause a gory, heart breaking scene. Honesty that thought alone should have given me the hint that I was a bit twisted in the brain. But I carried on anyways. After searching for fifteen minutes and not being able to find anything but a pathetic, rigid steak knife that seemed like a very painful object to use I gave up on looking. My eyes wandered over the kitchen and stuck on something green. I quietly walked over and picked up the empty wine bottle. Glass was sharp. And it was still dramatic enough. The police would blame it on my mom’s “drinking problem.” I decided it was good enough and grabbed it.