> for mila, bc she's amazing, and she's my literal wattpad queen. she also made the gorgeous banner on the side (which is also the new cover for the book, btw). if you haven't read her writing yet, you'd better get to it.
> "Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough; a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors." - Lena Haloway, Delirium
T H R E E
- Amara -
Dillon Hastings: You're such a loser. I don't know how Danny can even stand to be around you. You ought to just kill yourself, make the world a better place. You won't be missed.
Eighteen comments. Thirty-seven likes.
Shaken by the obviously positive responses of people to Dillon's message to me, I nervously click to the comments, a knot forming in my stomach; nothing good is to be found here, but I can't help being curious enough to see what they're saying. And sure enough, when the list of comments filters onto my computer screen, the waterfall of tears that is already covering my cheeks intensifies.
Most of the people who have commented on her post aren't friends of mine. They're the people who cheer Dillon on when she picks on me at school; the ones who laugh whenever I trip or stumble, and call me a klutz; the same students who have been tormenting me since I was a kid.
Too overwhelmed with the hateful words, I go back to the main page, still staring at the post Dillon made. And when my eyes land on the line just below it, the realization of how much of an outcast I am hits me with the force of a wrecking ball. Although I'd seen it before, this time, it truly sinks in; thirty-seven likes.
That means there are thirty-seven people out there who agree with Dillon Hastings. There are thirty-seven individuals who think I should do what Dillon told me to, that I should take her advice and end my pathetic existence.
Fine.
I pull out my cell phone and scroll through the minimal contacts until I find Danny's name and number. Fuelled by my anger and resignation, I type a message to him, explaining everything. I want Danny to know that he means the world to me, and that what I'm about to do is not his fault in the least. Because I know my best friend, and I know that if I don't tell him my reasoning, he'll blame everything on himself—then again, this is Daniel Birmingham we're talking about; he'll probably carry all the blame anyway, just because he won't be able to stop me.
When I'm finished with my long-winded message, I toss my phone onto my bed. Under my breath, I mutter both an apology and a goodbye to everything, to everyone; Danny, Sam, Jess, Dixon, my mother.
Straightening up, I fling my hair out of my face. Wordlessly, I cross to the bathroom that's connected to my room, my eyes filling with tears when the actuality of what I'm planning to do smashes against me again. The crimson walls, the color that seemed so cheerful when I'd decorated the bathroom with it, look like warning sirens now. They seem to blare at me to think once more, to be logical.
But it's too little, too late.
I reach under the sink, sifting through the cupboards for something specific. I push aside the extra soaps and shampoos, trying to find the one item I'll need. I flick aside the useless things; hair ties, contact lenses, toothbrushes, until my fingers close around what I've been searching for. I hold it up to the light, a slight, cryptic smile crossing my features when the light glints off of it.
A razor blade.
- Danny -
I veer my older brother's car around the corner, just barely avoiding the curb. But that doesn't matter to me at this point. There's only one thing on my mind; Amara.
Without taking my eyes off the road, I fish my phone out of my front pocket. Still on the screen, fresh from when I read it about five minutes ago, is the text Amara sent me. And even as I look at it a second time, a pang of guilt flashes through me; I should have never let her go home alone, I should have come with her so that she didn't do something like this.
Amara: I'm done. I hate high school, I hate my life. I'm sure you already saw the message Dillon posted, and I just want you to know; I'm taking her advice. But Danny, it's not your fault, alright? You've been the most amazing friend I could ever ask for. I love you so much. I'm sorry, too, for what I'm going to do. Goodbye.
Yes, I did see the nasty post Dillon Hastings left on Amara's Facebook. It hadn't taken much for me to find out about it, the rumors had started flying around the school the moment she typed it up. The forty or so likes it got could not have in the least helped the matter, either.
I screech the car to a halt outside of Amara's house, bolting in through the open front door. Ignoring Jess's annoyed protests, I race up the stairs, almost knocking Dixon over as I do so. Lunging for Amara's room, I throw the door back with excessive force, hoping to startle Amara out of swallowing sleeping pills or something.
When I don't hear the clatter of a plastic bottle hitting the floor, I know that she's resorted to using different measures. I make a mad dash to the bathroom, barging inside quickly. I gasp when I see the pitiful sight before me.
Amara is perched on the edge of the bathtub, a trail of blood running from a shallow gash on her forearm. Her fingers are trembling around a razor blade, which she clutches harder when I step forward to take it from her. She positions the sharp end of it right above the vulnerable vein pulsing in her fragile wrist.
"Amara!" I yell. "What the hell are you doing?"
I barrel forward, wrenching the blade from her quivering hands. Amara leaps to her feet, jumping to try and snatch it back from me. I keep it out of her reach, though, holding it above my head in an effort to save her. Rather than calming down, though, Amara glares at me, leaping so that she can grab it out of my fingers.
"You don't want to do this." I tell her quietly, knowing that shouting at her will do nothing to cool her off. "Take a breath, Amara. It's not worth it."
"Yes, I do!" She screams, pushing against my chest in a feeble attempt to get her weapon back. "Give me back the fucking blade, Daniel!"
"Quit." I retort, raising my voice as well. "You can't do this, and I won't let you."
I clamp my hand shut over the razor blade, wincing in pain when I feel the ragged edge dig into my palm. More worried about Amara, I push thoughts of my skin bleeding to the back of my mind, intent on bringing my best friend back to sanity.
"What is going on in here?" A male voice demands from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and see Sam, Amara's older brother, standing in the doorway, his face contorted in confusion. "Quick! Help me, Sam! Grab her!"
Sam swiftly ducks under my outstretched arm—the one that's still brandishing Amara's razor blade—and circles his arms around Amara's slim waist, throwing her over his broad shoulder with ease. She kicks and thrashes in his grip, ordering him to put her down, but Sam doesn't falter. He steps carefully back into her room and lowers her onto her bed. Amara struggles as she tries to get back to her feet, but with Sam kneeling on her legs, I doubt she'll have much luck.
"Damn you both!" She howls. "Why couldn't you just let me?"
Sam gives me a frightened glance, his brows knitted together on his forehead. "What is wrong with her? She's... she's acting like a lunatic."
I gesture to her laptop, which is still displaying her Facebook profile. "She got a message from Dillon Hastings..." I sigh. "It's horrible."
Preoccupied with the thought of having to calm Amara down, I bound back down the stairs, aiming for the kitchen. Tumbling toward the fridge, I throw an oblivious Jessica out of the way. I scan the shelves for a jug of water, something cold that I can douse Amara with to bring her back to her wits. But the only thing I can find is a carton of milk, full and beckoning me.
Whatever works.
I sprint back to Amara's bedroom, bracing myself for my next course of action. When I get there, I find a desperate Sam restraining his sister by sitting on her stomach. He gives me a pleading look, and I nod, motioning for him to move.
She tries to sit up, but I prevent her, pinning her wrists to her sides. Amara hisses in pain, and I glance down, noticing that I'm putting pressure on her injured arm. I recoil immediately, clenching my fingers into a fist.
"Don't fight." I command.
When she doesn't listen, I straighten up again. I unscrew the lid of the milk carton in one, fluid motion, and empty the contents onto her. Amara screeches in shock, swiping a hand over her face.
"This is milk!" She snaps, outraged. Rather than fighting again, she just falls back onto her mattress, tired.
Before she can say much else, I pull her into my arms. I carry her bridal style into the bathroom, and deposit her limp form into the bathtub. I turn the shower on, leaving the water on as cold as I can.
. . .
"I'm sorry, Danny," Amara insists for the hundredth time.
I shake my head, nodding at the cup she's got securely in her hands. "It's alright. Just... what were you doing? How did you expect to—to you know, with a razor blade?" The question it out of my mouth before I can stop it, and when I catch sight of Amara's wounded expression, I feel guilt seep into my pores. "Never—never mind, you don't have to answer—"
"I don't have much experience with that sort of thing, Daniel," she interrupts me softly, her words squeezed out between gritted teeth. "I didn't exactly think it through. I was so distraught, I—I just kind of—"
"You don't have to talk about it." I offer, her explanation unnerving me.
She bobs her head up and down in agreement, taking a tentative gulp of her boiling hot chocolate. I settle back on the couch, mind still buzzing with unanswered questions. After I pelted Amara with the freezing water in the shower, she just deflated. It was a bit awkward, since I'd first emptied a carton of milk on her and then dumped her in the bathtub, but it seemed to calm her down enough. Now, she's wearing a pair of polka-dotted pajamas, her feet tucked into some woolen socks.
Because her mother isn't home—out on a business trip or something somewhere—I've decided to spend the night with her. Sam has to take care of Dixon, and we agreed not to inform Jessica about Amara's rampage. We've also scratched out the option of telling her mom about it, because it would probably result in Amara being shooed into a mental institute.
"Are you okay?" I ask her, putting a comforting hand to her knee, which, to my satisfaction, she doesn't push off.
"I guess." Amara mumbles, avoiding my eyes. "I... Why did she do that?"
"I've no idea." I deadpan, internally hating Dillon and all of the stuck up kids at our school for what they've done to Amara, the most harmless person I've ever known. "That's just how Dillon is—a total bitch. You know that, though." I bite the inside of my cheek, wracking my brain for something more intelligent to say.
She sniffs, and I take that as my cue to pull her closer against me. Burying her face in the space between my neck and shoulder, she murmurs, "I never did anything to her—to any of them."
I grunt, patting her leg. I know that Amara never did anything to hurt Dillon in any way possible. She's always been in the back, her nose tucked inside a book.
But maybe that's the problem. Amara's always been hidden—so hidden that everyone believes her to be virtually nonexistent. And that's what makes her such an obvious target for Dillon and her hateful, gossiping claws. How hard is it, really, to tease a girl who is too afraid to even show her face?
Which is absolutely ridiculous, because Amara is the single most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on.
Her dark, chocolate brown hair falls below her chest in tight, sharp curls, framing her round face. Her chin is small, almost too small for her face, but the arch of her neck below it is delicate. Her smile is uneven, tilting upward more on one side than on the other; her cheekbones are high and defined; her eyes squint when she laughs; her irises are alight most of the time, the most intense shade of green imaginable—
I guess I don't know why they make fun of her, then. Maybe they don't see her the way that I do—but they could. An old babysitter of mine, Penelope—who used to live next door to me when I was four, and because she was a good ten years older than me, she was always hired to watch me when my parents were out—is actually a professional makeup artist. She dolls up all the celebrities for movies, TV shows, music videos, and so on. Maybe, if I put in a favor with her, she could help Amara out. Make her more like the shallow girls at school.
No, Amara wouldn't want that. And, more importantly, I don't want that. I like my best friend the way she is; dorky band tees, untied shoelaces, too much eyeliner, and all.
"Danny, do you think I'm pretty?" Amara whimpers, derailing my train of thought.
I have to shake my brain to come up with an appropriate response. I can't speak my mind and blurt out, "Amara, I think you're more than pretty—I think you're gorgeous," because that would just expose my true feelings for her. But on the other hand, I can't just off-handedly blabber, "Yeah, sure, whatever," because that will do absolutely zilch to heighten her self-esteem. I'll just have to wing this one. It'll be a shot in the dark, but hopefully it'll hit home.
"Yes, Amara, I think you're very pretty." I say honestly, catching a loose strand of her hair in between my thumb and index fingers.
"You're only saying that because you're my best friend, Danny." She pouts, but I can see a hint of a blush coating her cheeks. "No one else thinks so... Liam Gerald doesn't think so."
As soon as she says this, I feel my entire being stiffen. I find myself chewing on the tip of my tongue, allowing her words to soak in. So, she's harboring a little crush for the star pitcher of the school's baseball team, huh?
"Liam?" I repeat emptily, a sudden disdain for my teammate blossoming inside of me.
Her face turns bright red, and she turns her head so that I can no longer see the flaming blush filling her cheeks. "You know, Liam from the baseball team." She chuckles half-heartedly. "I've liked him for a while... He's just cool, I guess. And good-looking, popular—all of it. But he'd never like me back. I'm no Dillon; I'm just boring, and plain, and—"
"Stop." I command, feeling the jealousy of Amara's crush on Liam clawing into me like poison—I have to change the topic before I end up telling her how I feel. "Amara, you're just as pretty as Dillon, if not more. Tell me, what is your idea of beautiful?"
"Well," she drawls, trying to string together a description. "They're all blonde hair and blue eyes, slim, long lashes, high cheekbones... I don't think I have to continue—I'll bet you're drooling by now, just thinking about them. Besides, that's the kind of girl Liam would want." She ends her explanation on a bitter note, but her contempt is nothing compared to mine.
How does she not realize that she is a hundred times better than them? There's nothing so special about blonde hair, especially when it comes out of a five-dollar box of dye. And her own mysterious irises are far more interesting than the glazed, witless ones that Dillon and her friends have. She's been beaten down so much, her ego has been slaughtered over and over again—I'm surprised she hasn't just spontaneously combusted from the pressure.
Oh. Yeah. She did, just a little while ago. And I had to save her.
I reach out and pinch her cheek, trying to lighten the mood. "You've got high cheekbones, too."
"But if I had straight blonde hair and a single-digit number of brain cells..."
I groan, making my decision in an instant. If she wants to look exactly like those Barbie dolls at our school, then so be it. There's no way I can convince her of how beautiful she really is—and definitely not if she's hung up on Liam, who really does have more helium floating around in his head than a balloon. And if she's keen on being like those girls who own more makeup products than the nearest Sephora boutique, and who wear skirts so short a dog could sport them as its collar... then, fine.
I think Penelope is going to get a new client.
Note: Cyberbullying, although done online or without seeing the person face to face, is still a method of bullying nonetheless. Please, do not engage or condone cyberbullying, or any other kind of bullying for that matter. Do not use your keyboard as a weapon: Stop cyberbullying.