Chapter 5: Zara
As usual, I awoke at seven- a whole damn hour before we all had to get out of bed. It's a habit I can't get out of, one I hate, and don't ask me why I have it. I mean, it's not because I'm used to getting up for school or something- I didn't go half the time towards the end- so there's no reason for it. And it's something I've always had- I can go to bed at four in the morning, which I did regularly before this place, and bam, I'm up two hours later, hung over, bloodshot, and tired and pissed as hell.
I guess that's the only plus side of having such an early bed time here- I don't wake up feeling so shitty. Now if I ever admitted that to Naomi though, she'd make a big deal about it- "That's why you don't use drugs, Zara"- blah blah blah. I know I shouldn't use drugs, everyone knows that, I know what it does to me. I'm not stupid. It's just that in the moment you want to so much you don't care about what you learned in fifth grade in D.A.R.E. I mean, if you just had the shittiest day of your life and you are completely depressed and angry, if you don't take it out and hit someone first, what do they really think if someone offers you something to make you feel better you'll say, "No thanks man, I'll stay miserable. I just say no, of course." Get a fucking clue. But apparently that is what I'm supposed to do.
Naomi and Ethan are always asking me stuff like what made me want to go Goth, if I'm depressed, why I started using, etc, etc. The thing is I can't really answer any of that even to myself. I mean, I can, but I can't. It just seemed the thing to do at the time- it was instinctive, just kind of kicked in on me- one day I wasn't, and the next I was. Like puberty or something. I never was one of those girls who wear all the expensive jeans and polo shirts and crap and like boy bands and ponies and rainbows. I always liked heavy metal and weird bands no one else ever heard of, let alone listened to, and wore baggy guy shirts and pants. So it wasn't that much of as step forward for me to get more black clothes, chained and studded jewelry, multiple piercings, black eyeliner and lipstick, and dying my hair reddish purple. I still wore my guy clothes, but I also have sexier black trench coats and corset-like dresses and shirts.
As for why I did this, I mean, I'm not going to write an essay on it. I'll keep it simple for those to you who need things to be- the world is screwed up, okay? Everyone's fake, and it sickens me. I didn't want to associate with the rest of the world, so therefore I don't. The way I look is a clearly visible and therefore easy to realize statement to the idiotic public to that effect. I don't look like them because I don't want to be like them. Is that so hard to get?
That's why I changed my name too. I mean, my name is Sara. Can you get any more common or sickeningly preppy and sweet than that? The name Sara screams out, " I am a mindless girl whose only goal in life is to blend in." I mean, Sara, means princess. That is so not me. I'm not a Sara- so I became a Zara. How many Zaras do you know? I didn't think so. My name is unique- like I want to be.
And as for the depression thing, yeah, of course I was depressed. Who the hell isn't these days? The people who say they are happy are either fucking liars or they're so stoned they can't help but be. But that doesn't mean I'd do anything about it. I'm Goth, not emo. I don't slit my wrists or think suicidal thoughts, I'm just not like that. I'm not a masochist, I don't understand the concept of how causing pain to yourself would take pain away.
But I do understand wanting to dull it. The most effective way, as I've learned, and also the quickest, is through drugs. I've taken more than I can remember- LSD, pot, crystal meth, heroin, belladonna, etc, etc, and of course, the old teen standbys, cigarettes and beer. I even tried cocaine once but it made me shake so badly and my heart beat so fast I was afraid I'd die. I got scared enough after that I never tried it again, though I was tempted. But yeah, that was like the only thing I wasn't addicted to or close to being addicted to.
You can imagine how horrible it was for me after I was finally prosecuted. Since I'm a minor still, they sent me to a rehab for two months- utter and total hell. I was a complete fucking mess, completely sick from various withdrawals- shaking, crying, puking, I was a nightmare. It's a wonder no one killed me- or I didn't kill someone. I've never been a passive girl, I get angry much quicker and more explosively than I should- even before drugs. I get physical instead of using words and backstabbing like other girls. I really think I should have been born a guy sometimes, I'm just not made to be a girl. But once I was taking drugs I was even worse- I gave people black eyes, split lips, broke ear drums- one time I even slammed a guy's head into the sidewalk until the passed out. He had been attempting to feel me up, but that's beside the point. In the rehab, during withdrawal, I was even worse- if I had been strong enough, I would have killed someone. As it was only the people working with me dared to come near me.
Somehow I survived rehab and got past the physical withdrawal stages, and so they put me in here in the mental rehab, supposedly so I won't want to take drugs again. I've been here over three months and I don't know... I'm getting used to it. I hated it at first, of course- I was finally clear-headed enough to think more normally, and when I was I was pushed into a place where nothing but rules and psychobabble was shoved at me. I still hate it most of the time- but believe it or not, I think it's starting to get to me. If I stay much longer I think I'll get as soft and mush-minded as everybody else... scary thought. I might even start giving hugs...
I've actually thought about what it would be like to live in the real world, without drugs. I've wondered if I might even like it... now I've been sober for five months, I've finally gotten to the point where I'm not in pain, and I do like it. That's not to say I don't want to use- I still think about it a lot, still want it, but I think it's a mental thing now more than physical. I could stay clean now if I wanted to- and sometimes I think I do. And that I might be able to. But of course, that's easy to say while I'm at Shadyside and have no opportunities to accept or refuse. I wonder if I really would stay clean if I left. I don't know which thought is scarier- that I might, or I might not...
Hell, I've even gotten attached to some of the people here. I mean, as attached as I'm going to get anyway. Even Naomi, she's all right, for a doctor- I think she gets where we're coming from most of the time. I can't say the same about Ethan, he's a conceited prick that doesn't know half as much shit about us as he likes to think. All the rest of them, they're okay too most of the time- I like to give them a hard time, but that's just me. Lane can be annoying with her Sara Sunshine act, but that's just her, I don't think she's trying to piss me off. It's her particular psychosis or something. Anyone who could slice her face up like that just so she doesn't look like her sister, she has to be insane.
Even Ariadne, I hated her on sight just on principle, since she looked exactly like one of those spoiled rich bitches from my school who'd say shit about me behind my back, but I sort of like her now, grudgingly, yeah, but she's alright. She doesn't take shit off anyone, she's tougher than she looks- and she doesn't let anyone bug Julianna, her roommate, either. I respect that.
Then, of course, there's Xander- and I don't even know what to say about him. He's like the guy version of me, the guy I should have been. I can't even really explain to myself what I feel about him. He is such a dick- and I think this with equal measures of disgust and affection, if possible. He reminds me of me, and I think I remind him of him, although neither of us will admit it. We've both been through a lot of the same shit and reacted the same ways, and now we ended up in the same place- no great chances of that happening, but it did. I can't tell if I love him or hate him half the time- I think it's some of both. We're always putting each other down, pissing each other off, but we don't really stay mad too long, especially considering how we are with our "anger control issues".
I guess we both need someone to put us in our place, and we do that for each other. Like I said, we piss each other off a lot, but he can be almost sweet sometimes, shockingly. I'm pretty sure he's hot for me but won't admit it. People like us can't. I think the truth is we're afraid to. Shit, I really am listening to Naomi's psychobabble too much. What is wrong with me?
The one person I absolutely cannot take in this place is fucking Anya Dardanos. I'm not going to talk about that bitch this early in the morning, I'll have to see her face soon enough and that's more than enough for one day.
After lying in bed for another 15 minutes, I finally threw back my scratchy blanket, rolled out of it slowly. I crossed the space between my bed and that of my roommate, Vanessa's, and looked down at her with an appraising frown. As usual her face was turned away, I could only see the back of her dark brown head. I made out her body's outline under the blanket. She was about my size, average height and weight- we could probably wear the same clothes, not that either of us would want to.
She was so still, so unmoving. I gently slid my hand down over her neck, feeling at the base of her throat for her pulse. This had become a morning ritual for me, making sure she hadn't offed herself during the night. Given a chance, she would. Pulling her blanket back, I took one of her limp wrists and checked it for new cuts. Her second wrist was crusted with blood. Shit. She had picked at an old scar until it bled again.
I shook her shoulder, still holding her wrist in one hand. She either was ignoring me or didn't feel me; her head and shoulders rolled lifelessly.
"Vanessa. Come on, get up."
She eventually blinked at me through dull, bleary eyes.
"What, Zara?" she muttered.
"You scratched one of your cuts open again. Dammit Vanessa, you have to stop it!" I muttered, my voice exasperated, but I was really worried about her. She was seriously determined to hurt herself and I couldn't always watch her. I was always afraid one morning I'd wake up and find her dead, discover she had killed herself in the same room while I slept. Hence the checking her pulse thing had started.
She just looked at me blankly, her eyes reminding me of a blind person's.
"It's not deep," she mumbled.
"I don't give a shit, Vanessa. The point is it's there, and you did it on purpose. How'd you do it anyway, your fingernails couldn't possibly be cut any shorter!"
She shrugged lifelessly. Letting go of her wrist, I sat on the edge of her bed, suddenly feeling very, very tired, though I'd gone to bed at a decent hour like a good little patient.
"Why do you do it, Vanessa?" I asked wearily. "And don't tell me shit about how it makes you feel better again. You can't feel better by feeling pain, it's impossible."
"You know it's not, Zara," Vanessa said in the same monotone. "You ought to understand, you do it yourself, just in a different way. It's my drug..."
For a moment, I just stared at her, shocked, at several things. For one, Vanessa never spoke that many words at once. And for another, she sounded eerily- and uncomfortably- like Naomi. She might even be right... but she wasn't applying her obvious skills at listening to Naomi's preaching to where they really mattered- such as the preaching entitled "Don't hurt yourself, Vanessa."
"News flash, Vanessa. They took my drugs, but I'm not trying to get any, at least while I'm in the damn mental health clinic. You're supposed to be trying to get better. Can't you at least pretend?" I lowered my voice. "Look, I'm worried, okay? I don't like to watch you do that to yourself."
Geez, I really was turning into a bleeding heart. If Xander heard me he'd laugh his head off.
Vanessa didn't say anything. I knew perfectly well nothing I said would make a difference - tomorrow, even ten minutes from now, I'd probably find her bleeding again...
Grasping her by the shoulders, I tried to pull her to a sitting position.
"Come on, I'll take you to Dr. Cott," I muttered.
She allowed herself to be moved limply, not even seeming to notice when in spite of myself, I made a face when my hand came in contact with her scars, shuddering slightly. You'd think I'd be used to her by now, but no, it's like I half expect them to heal, to just be gone one day. Tough luck when someone picks at them every chance they get.
I dragged her down the hall in search of the night doctor. Naomi and Ethan didn't come in until 10, and they leave by 8. They switch off weekends who works. I guess they have a life outside this place too, although it's hard to imagine. I hope she'd be done disinfecting and lecturing her by the time group therapy rolled around- if Vanessa was absent for two sessions in a row, Anya Asshole would have to say something, and then I'd want to punch her smug fucking face in.