A/N: There is a reason behind this story. It's that Ellen Hopkins is my inspiration. Yes, I borrowed this idea, but I am making it my own. It's darker than "Snapped," but I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Nick Jonas, or any of the familiar names in this story. I hardly own the idea…it's borrowed.
I can almost hear my dear, sweet mother's final words to me as they took me away in an ambulance. Although I couldn't hear her—I was knocked unconscious—I could guess what they were.
"I had expected you to be more mature than this, Oliver." Her voice deep, her man-voice. It often led me to think she was on steroids. Oh, wow…I had never thought of this before, but pills would have been so much easier to do. Why had I actually thought that swinging, for the world to see, from the school's diving board would go unnoticed, until it was too late? How foolish. My mother was probably right. A more mature person than I would have actually thought this through. But, no, I only act on my impulses.
Most people shudder at the thought of death, and some even go as far as to think that those who try to off themselves are just insane. It would explain a lot, if I were only insane. But I know I'm not. I'm Oliver Oken, the boy who just can't stay away from things that are bad for him.
I'm not talking drugs. I'm not talking alcohol. I'm not even talking sex. I'm talking about love. Love with a girl—no, a woman, older than myself. Her name was Juliette. I longed to be her Romeo.
I should have known that it just couldn't be. But I was persistent. I chased after her. She always seemed to be so far ahead of me. Until one day, I got her to stop dead in her tracks, so I could pounce. She was walking by my house, not noticing anything, not a care in the world. That was one of the things that attracted me to her; she was so carefree. I stopped her with four simple words.
"I think you're beautiful."
She stopped, as though she was imagining it. As she turned slowly to me, a smirk found it's way onto my face. Yes, the classic "Oken" smirk. Every Oken boy had it, and used it to their utmost advantage.
I'll admit, at first she was incredibly wary. Once I had convinced her that what I had told her was true, she seemed to just get more stressed. I'm only a boy; I wasn't sure exactly how to calm her down. So I sat and waited, watching as she fought her inner demons. Twisted as it may seem, seeing her swing from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds was highly amusing. I was always a straightforward boy. Always knew what I wanted when I wanted it, and how to get it.
Therefore it came to no surprise to me that she gave in. And there I found myself, in a relationship with a twenty-eight year old woman. I was only sixteen. Twelve years seems like a big number, doesn't it?
Well, a year goes by fast, doesn't it? And a year is only a simpler way to say twelve months. In my mind, there was no numbers to limit our love. There wasn't anything except deep, carefree love pulsing through my veins. For once in my whole life, I had felt no need to do anything except cater to my Juliette. Everyday, my love for her grew stronger. It grew thicker in my veins, red hot.
Unfortunately, the love in her veins quickly grew cold. It went unnoticed by me for the longest time. I curse myself for not seeing the signs. The way she no longer held me, the way her glances were full of sorrow and regret, the way her kisses—meant for my lips—only hit my cheek, like I was a child.
Well, they do say love is blind. So, if Juliette wasn't in love, then why did my undying affection for her just slip past? It should have been obvious.
The day it all ended is still etched into my mind. Juliette called me, secretly, and invited me over. I, obviously, got excited and happy, and immediately stepped onto Cloud Nine. I showered, dressed, and hurried over to her apartment, like her house was on fire and I had to save her.
I was expecting candles lit, sweets waiting on the coffee table, dimmed lights, and even some wine. Oh, sure, it was a little farfetched…but I can tell you aren't quite swallowing my tale to well, are you? My tale in itself is crazy, so what's a little more?
Instead of my expectations, I found a pale Juliette, covered in a plaid blanket, sitting on her couch. She invited me in, and I sat at the other end of the couch, waiting for her to say something. Call me crazy (and I know you are), but I thought something was wrong—that was complete and utter sarcasm. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it pulsating from her body, mingled with the heat the thick blanket spread.
"This has to end, Oliver."
Her voice was fragile and soft, like always. It wasn't weak; it was just…soft. Like an angel's. I was utterly confused at first. Hadn't she loved me like I loved her? This had to be some sort of joke. Something horrible in the back of my mind told me it wasn't. She was all too serious, and that was when I first started to break.
I shakily asked her why. Her response was cold.
"Why? God, Oliver, are you retarded? Can't you see how different we are? You're just a boy, and I'm a woman. A woman who doesn't need you anymore."
At those words, my stomach plummeted. How could someone so sweet have such a huge bitch lying under the deceiving exterior? I shook slightly in my seat, unable to digest what she was suggesting. I had to leave her. She was kicking me out of her life.
"Get out now, Oliver."
And she was kicking me out of her home. The first step outside her wooden door would close me off from her forever. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't need the cops called on me. My mother is a cop…I hate to think what she would say if she knew exactly why I was in this place.
Malibu's Rehabilitation Center. Yep, rehab. For the alcoholics, the druggies, the basket cases alike. Only these were teenagers. A wacko shack for teens. How civilized.
After I tried to kill myself, I spent about six weeks in a neck brace. The doctors told me the ring around my neck would never go away. So I'd wear it like a medal.
Then my mom brought me here. She told me, harshly, that she couldn't deal with such immaturity right now, and that she wanted me to get better.
Mother, there is a huge hole in my heart where Juliette used to be. Tell me, is that supposed to get better anytime soon, if at all?
No matter what I said—"I'm fine." "You're overreacting." "Hey, I'm still disgracing the Earth, aren't I? Why torture me more?"—I was stuck here. For a year. Until I "got better."
There was a counselor in this place, her name Mrs. Amber Williams. I met her briefly on my brisk tour of the place. She was pretty—but I wasn't going down that path again. And she looked easy to communicate with—but that didn't mean I was going to give in easily.
I was left in a room, plain and painted yellow, with a note in one hand, and a small painkiller in the other. Downing the painkiller, I read the note.
It just told me the basic guidelines of the place. I had to go to school (oh, joy), there were mandatory church services on Sunday (another place where I wouldn't belong), and that there were levels I'd have to get to in order to show my progress. I was currently at Level Zero, the lowest of the low.
The levels were their own little cliques. Levels had to stick together, and not co-mingle with other levels. If it was a real rule, or just an unspoken one, didn't matter to me. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here so…I couldn't even think of a true reason. I was here because my mother wanted me to be. I was here because suicide is looked down upon in our society today, for absolutely no reason. A kid wants to get out of his miserable life. Why punish him for failing?
I thought back to the day when it was supposed to go down.
It was a week after Juliette severed all ties with me. I had been feeling low ever since then, but today I was a downright wreck. Looking at the calendar—August twentieth—I realized with a jolt that it would have been our six-month anniversary.
I was almost immediately consumed by depression. Juliette was my life. If she was gone, there was absolutely no reason to live. That thought in mind, I walked into the attic. My attic had absolutely everything crammed in it, and was overflowing with what I needed most—rope. I grabbed one with a sizeable length, and then wondered where to do it. I couldn't do it at home; my father was here, albeit completely hammered. It hit me like a ton of bricks.
School.
It was eight o'clock at night. Nobody would even be there, and I knew a quick way to sneak inside. The trek to my school was short, only three blocks. I slipped inside quietly and made my way to the pool.
What I had in mind was that, if the hanging didn't work, I could always drown. I carefully made a noose and tied the other end securely from a beam on the diving board. Walking to the end, I said one last thing before I stepped over.
"This is where you left me, Juliette."
I lost consciousness almost instantly. The constriction of my airways was frightening, but I only had seconds to think about it before I slipped into blackness.
When I awoke, my neck felt numb, and I was blinded by white.
Am I in Heaven? I asked myself naïvely. I was soon corrected by a screech.
"He's up! He's up!" my older sister's voice cut through my eardrums. My father rushed to my side.
"Oliver," he breathed. "I'm so glad you made it."
Then he started crying. Let me set you straight, my father doesn't cry. Both of my parents were hardasses. But there he was, with tears in his eyes.
Later I found out that my mother was the one who found me. I couldn't believe I had forgotten; my mom patrols the school at night, making sure no shenanigans went down. I tried to ignore her absence from the hospital room, as though I didn't care. I didn't, really, but I hated the anticipation I felt, wondering what her words would be when she saw me. I had a gut feeling that they would be harsh.
"This isn't what I expected from you, Oliver. You seemed like such an intelligent boy. That's a pretty good mask you're wearing."
I had been dead-on. And now, here I was, a place I would call home for the next year.
A year. Twelve months. Twelve years. Juliette.
Will the irony ever end?
A/N: Okay, first chapter, done. I was a little wary about actually doing this story, but I hope you like it. The point of view will change with each chapter. What should the pairing be? Loliver or Nilly?Did you like this chapter?
Should I continue?
Tell me, in a review.
-Caley.
P.S. It's my birthday! :)