Antidote

Chapter 1

"Hot Stuff." I whisper my new nickname for him as he walks down the halls, girls ogling him. I can't say I blame them. He's hotter than I think boys should be allowed to be. His cocky grin makes my insides melt. His sandy brown hair flops appealingly across his forehead, cut in a simple style that manages to look extremely attractive on him. I envy his confident walk. His old, classic sneakers suit him perfectly, as does his old, worn, black hoodie. In other words, this boy doesn't even have to try to look hot, he just is. His girlfriend, Claire, clings to his arm, like a leech, but he doesn't seem to care. After all, she's the perfect cliché girlfriend. Chic, cool, gossipy, popular, and insanely pretty. Compared to her, I look like I've lived my whole life in a garbage can. But I've already resigned myself to my fate. The hottest boy in Dasher High just doesn't pay attention to girls like me. Then again, who would? Who would want to be romantically involved with a light-skinned, drab, brown-haired girl with scars up and down her body who loves reading? Not anybody I know. Besides, he's the great Tristan Daniels, and I'm the simple Alex Foster. And we just don't mix.

***

"Hey, girl!" I turn around to see my best friend, Sarah, standing next to my locker. I give her a smile and finish collecting my things for English, my favorite class. I hope we're reading today. Today has been one of my worst days, and I really don't feel like writing. Sarah and I part ways so she can go to Math.

I enter the English room and a few people look up. Needless to say, I'm not especially popular, so I don't expect to be talked to. I wish Sarah was here. I choose a seat near the back and open my book to read until the teacher comes. Soon I'm lost in the romances of Hazel and Augustus.......

Slam!

I look up from The Fault In Our Stars, startled. My eyes find the perpetrator, and I blush and look away from Tristan's adorable face. He has Claire on his arm, of course. I'm seriously tempted to stick my foot out as they walk by, but I refrain. Such a move would only get me into trouble. They take seats next to each other in the very back, and I have no doubt that as soon as the teacher turns his back, they'll be sucking each other's faces off. Trust me, it's not the first time it's happened.

I put my book down and tune into what Mr. Fitzpatrick was saying. "Class, we will be having a joint class today. You will be playing with Mrs. Robertson's P.E. class while I get some work done." I cheer silently. I am pretty athletic, so I like P.E. I follow the other students out the door, and we all walk to the gym. Mrs. Robertson's class is already dressed out and waiting for us. To my delight, we're playing dodgeball, my favorite game.

I line up with the rest of the girls to challenge the boys. We get our weapons and start throwing. Two minutes later, only 4 boys are left in the game.

SMACK! Max is out. SMACK! Tim is out. Only two more left.........SMACK! Tom is out. Now there's only one boy left in the game, and only two girls. Just my luck, my partner in crime is none other than Claire (by some miracle) and the boy is none other than good old Mr. Daniels. He smirks at me, clearly expecting to take us down and be the hero on the boys team. Not going to happen! No way am I letting him take me down. I judge the distance carefully and take aim. SMACK! The ball hits it's target dead center, hitting Tristan in the face. I cheer triumphantly. We won! The girls actually won! And all thanks to me and my killer aim. Not that I'll get any credit for it, of course.

That's because I am Alex Foster. A 17-year-old girl who goes to Dasher High. I may sound ordinary to you, but I'm not. I'm as far from ordinary as a person can be. I'm completely different, but nobody knows that except Sarah. And even she doesn't know the whole truth, at least not the extent of it. Nobody knows the true extent of it but me.

I have depression, and I self harm quite often. But nobody notices because I either wear long sleeves, cover the scars with Band-Aids, or cover them with bracelets. My mother isn't ever home, and my father is dead, so nobody can interfere with my cutting. Which is exactly how I want it.

***

"I'm home!" I call as I walk through the door. I'm pretty sure my mother won't be here, but I yell it out anyway. My mom works hard at her job, and often has to travel around the world for it. And when I turned 13, I stopped going with her, which improved my grades a lot. (Less absences) Now, 17, coming home to an empty house is commonplace. My mother is a model, and has to travel around the world for the various shoots. Honestly, I envy her. Why couldn't I have inherited my mother's genes for beauty? I go to the kitchen and eat a few Oreos. My mother's suitcase and clothes are gone, so she must be at that shoot in Venezuela she told me about. Perfect. Almost out of habit, I get some Band-Aids from the cupboard and hightail it to my bathroom.

I get out my razor and make a deep cut on my right arm. As I cover it with a Band-Aid, I let loose and let the self hate pour through me, my thoughts ever so churning and dark.

You're ugly.

You'll never be beautiful.

No guy will ever like you.

I put my head down and let the tears flow freely. As I cut thin neat cuts on my wrists, the pain feels so good. Hurting myself feels so good. It's a temporary hideout from my depression, an escape from the hardships of life. When I've cried myself out and finished cutting, I've used all of the Band-Aids. I get in bed, my sore, bandaged body reminding me constantly of all my imperfections.

Authors note: Yeah, I know it's not too happy. But at least I'm raising awareness for depression and self harm, which so many of us struggle with. But the thing is, you could go your whole life without ever knowing someone self harms. Your sibling could be self harming and you'd never know it if they didn't tell you. That's why they pick and choose who they tell. But let me just leave you with this: If someone ever admits to you that they are self harming, don't take it lightly. Even if you don't, act like you care. Know that you are very privileged to have learned this about them. And, above all, BE THERE FOR THEM.

All my love,

Em