Out of the Dark

I was given the idea for this story from Impulse by Ellen Hopkins

I'm well aware that this messes up the Degrassi timelineIt takes place in season 5, after Turned Out (J.T sold drugs), but before Together Forever (Craig leaving). Let's pretend that Emma was anorexic before Together Forever, because Craig needs to be in this story.

Chapter 1: Safety Pins

Ellie

There's nothing good around here, is there? I try to find one spot where I won't be bothered, where I can take out my tools and give myself some air, but the place is full with stupid nurses in there stupid nurse shoes and stupid nurse shirts. Those dumb shirts that have Mickey and teddy bears on them. As if. I'm not five. Those shirts make me want to throw up.

I walk aimlessly down the hall. Well, not exactly aimlessly. I'm looking for someplace to go, I just don't know exactly where I'm going. So is that really aimless?

I don't need an escort, like I would if I'd be spending time in the bathroom or doing my laundry or something. I'm a Level One, so I can walk around, if I'd like. I can go to the rec. room or therapy by myself. But it's not like I'm really by myself anyway. The stupid nurses are everywhere, and even if it doesn't seem like it, they're watching you. They're always watching you.

Here in the loony bin, this "treatment center", eyes are always watching you. Eyes that try to make sure that you don't try to drop dead again. That's what Sunny Brook is. A place that locks teenagers up for trying the big S. Suicide.

Yeah, you heard me. Ellie Nash tried to die. Surprised? Don't be. Ever since I started cutting, I could never really get over it. Relapses just kept coming and coming. I'm not sure if people ever knew about them or not. You know that time when I told Sean I stopped? Big lie. All those times I told Sauve I stopped? Even bigger lies. Group therapy and all that, it was just a mask to hide everything. I figured since my mom went back on her word and quit AA, went back to drinking every night, I could go back on my word, too.

Then one night, everything got to me, and I cut until there was nothing left. I sank into a world filled with darkness, waiting for the end. The darkness was completely silent, the only silence I'd ever had in my life. It was the best. It didn't last, though. I woke up in the hospital, and landed here.

Most of the kids here are addicted to drugs. That's how suicide came into their heads. The rest of us just tried to die, plain and simple. There are some self mutilators, cutters, like me floating around, but not many.

I decide to go back to my room, maybe it'd work there. I might be getting a new roommate today, if she makes Level One to get out of solitary confinement. I dunno who she is, but they haven't had her by herself for very long.

"Hey, Ellie," Morgan says, a poor soul who was once (maybe still) addicted to crystal meth. I can't say she's really my friend, it's hard to make real friends here when everyone is just as paranoid and crazy as you, but we've talked. I don't know how she stands crystal. The stuff winds you up, and then drops you off a cliff. I mean, if you're going to kick the bucket, then why not just do it already? Instead of letting your brain rot… I could never handle it.

"Hey," I mutter, as she falls in step with me, "Know any place that isn't swamped by nurses?"

She looks at me, her brow furrowing, but leaves it at that. She knows that I want to cut, but she won't say anything. All the big mouths in this joint have no friends, we make sure of that. If you confide in someone that you still need this deadly thing, they're expected not to tell, or they're dead meat. It's just an unspoken rule that everyone knows. They all learn it, right when they come, and live by it, because pretty much everyone feels the same way, no matter how the thought of suicide came to them.

"Sorry… I can't help you there," she says, "I wish, though."

I frown inside my head, ready to scream, and continue walking until I reach my room.

The door is shut behind me, and I sit down on my bed. Arm warmer gets pulled down, and I pull the safety pin out from under the mattress. Even though my gothic/punk style had toned down at the start of senior year, it revved right up again when I got stuck here. What can I say? Arm warmers make everything easier to hide.

The sharp edge of the safety pin pops out, inviting me.

They really shouldn't call these things "safety pins". I mean, I've hurt myself so many times with them, they're not that safe. Trust me, having a razor or scissors on hand would be so much easier, but this is roughing it here. Here, there are no sharp objects for the suicide cutters, so I have to take what I get. I'd love to have a razor. A knife, maybe even a… but I can't think about that. I'll get anxious.

The point inches toward my skin. This is the best part, the suspense hanging in the air right before the cut. The major rush. For some people, it's a nice rush, and the pain makes them laugh. But not for me. My reasons for blood and glittering metal go deeper than that. The rush makes me draw in shaky breathes. The pain, the wonderful pain that is able to replace the uncontrollable, it makes me cry. But I need it and hate it so much, all the same.

This small little safety pin, it doesn't make me shake and cry. It can't, really. Only the bigger scars, the ones that make the blood flow. A dinky safety pin in a loony bin? It can't do much damage. All I can do is draw little beads of blood, or people will notice. I'll get caught. That wouldn't be good. I'd be dropped back down to Level Zero, and back to solitary confinement. Back to therapy drill sessions with Dr. Moon. I don't want to go back to that. Not ever.

The point goes just under my skin, not too deep. I drag it across, and blood comes out, staining my pale skin red. A deep red that I constantly see, every day of my life. It is part of me now, the redness of blood that escapes from my body, a red that I'll never be able to get rid of. But right now, the red is here on invitation. I welcome it out into the air.

I stuff the safety pin back under my mattress. My arm warmer goes back up, and I breathe. I'm okay. No one will see. No one can see, or I'm dead.

There is a knock on the door. It opens, and I see it's Hanna, with treats. My Prozac, my daily depression medication. Not that I'm depressed, I don't think I am. That's just what they think, so they stuff the Prozac down everyone's throat until it comes out their ears. The Prozac only makes me a little more sane, a little more normal. It doesn't help much. It doesn't take the pain away, make me soar like self injury does. But I take it anyway, because I'm a good little girl.

But I notice that there is one pill to many. She steps inside and someone follows her. My new roomy. My eyes go wide, because I know who she is.

"Hello, Ellie," Hanna says, "Time for your Prozac," She gives me the pill, and gives the other one to the blond. We each pop it into our mouths, and swallow. We then both stare at each other, amazed over the fact that we have to share a room.

"This is your new roommate, Emma Nelson. You go to the same school, don't you?"

I have to share a room with her? Not that I've got that much against her… besides the fact that she's annoying and was always the center of Sean's attention, no matter how hard he tried to hide it from me. I mean, I always knew that he'd leave me in the end, I wasn't good enough (I never am), but she didn't have to butt in. Not that I think she got a gun pointed at her face on purpose, but Sean always loved her. He never stopped. Honestly, I have no idea why he ever went out with me. She's beautiful and smart and funny… everything I'm not.

Not that I'm jealous or hate her or anything. This past summer I decided to try to let go of the shooting. No sense being jealous over something I have no control over (I never had a chance, really. Not a leg to stand on). No sense being angry at some girl who didn't do much except exist (oh, and make me look like an idiot, "Ellie, let him go. He should've done this a long time ago." What the hell?! I know more about him than her! Maybe). But I'm still a little mad at her, I can't help it. I guess I have to get over it, now that she's living with me. Wait a minute…

No way. Just no fucking way. Emma Nelson tried to push up daises? I'm shocked, a little impressed even. I never thought she'd do that. She was always such a… wimp. I know, I've got pretty high standards for toughness considering my home life and my dad being a soldier, but still. It's just so… weird.

"Yeah," I say, clutching my sheets, "I know her."

"Good," she says, "You'll bring her with you to dinner, right?"

I nod, and she lets herself out, leaving the door open a crack. Really, the doors are only suppose to be shut when we're changing. But no one listens to that rule.

"Hi Ellie," Emma says to me, putting her bag on the other bed. She starts to take her clothes out and put them in her drawers in the dresser we now share.

"Hi," I say, staring at her. Maybe I'll play nice, if I don't go crazy, "Since when are you here?"

"Since I tried to die last weekend."

No shit, Einstein. I was hoping for a little more detail. Stupid newbie.

"Better take your earrings out. And hide them," I tell her, "The nurse will take them."

"But why? Not like I'm going to try to kill myself with earrings…" she says this as she takes out her diamonds. Oh, yes, she's real special. Why'd she even bring diamonds here in the first place? Thinking it was like a fucking vacation? But I shouldn't be so hard on her. If she's here, it means she tried to do away with herself.

Never thought little miss save the environment Nelson had the guts. Suicide doesn't exactly fit her image. My image? Sure. I practically signed up for it the day I cut myself for the first time. But Emma? No. She's got a family and friends, and she doesn't slit her wrists, that's always a plus. I know that she does have an uncontrollable hate for food (yes. Paige has called with all the latest gossip), but how exactly does that come to killing yourself?

"No, but I might," I say, smiling. She looks at me, wide eyed. Really, it's not a big deal for me anymore. To talk about it like that. At least, the outside stuff. Not the inside. When I'm crazy, it doesn't matter, "At least, that's what they think, the nurses. I'm not that stupid. The point of an earring would hardly do any damage, barely any blood at all. I had to take all my earrings out. They took them. Sent them home. It sucks. I mean, I even had to take my belly button piercing out. So by the time I get out of here, the holes will probably all close up. If I ever get out of here. I'm going to charge this place when I get them pierced again. It's just plain stupid."

"Oh," is all Emma says, and stuffs her earrings in her bag. She continues to unpack.

"So, how'd you get here? I mean, how'd you try to do yourself off?"

"Pills."

"Ha," I laugh, "If you're really desperate, you'll use a knife, and create a masterpiece."

I lift up my skirt so she can see my upper thighs, but not my underwear. There, PAIN is etched in scars, jagged and imperfect. It's written once so I can read it, and again upside down, so Emma can read it too. I did that so people could see it without doing a handstand. Generous, aren't I? Or maybe I just wanted more blood. On the other leg there are just plain old lines, long and straight. Not so exciting to look at, but it'd been necessary at the time. I hadn't felt like wasting time writing something else.

"Doesn't look like enough to die to me," Emma says, staring. Ha, the bitch. What does she know about dying from blood loss? Nothing. So she shouldn't be talking.

"Oh, they're deeper than they seem. And there's my arms too," I say, "Those are way messed up. You wanna see?"

"Maybe some other time."

Wimp. But I don't tell her that. I guess I'd be a little creeped out by me too right now. In fact, that little person inside my head is very afraid. But that little person doesn't control me. I do.

Emma doesn't have to worry too much. I'm not crazy like this all the time. Just this hour or so every day, everyone gets like this (maybe I want to scare her, too). It's because the morning Prozac has worn off, and the night pill hasn't kicked in yet. We call it the Dark Hour. There is also a Dark Hour right after you wake up, and pretty much lasts until breakfast.

That's how we all live around here. Wasted. Surviving on one pill delivery to the next to keep our heads above the water. Some float, some sink. Some just stay trapped, not sure whether to go up or down. A tug of war inside your head.

"That's okay," I laugh, "We've got a while. We're living together."

"I'm just glad to be out of solitary confinement."

"How long were you there, anyway?"

"Five days," Emma says, and I start to laugh, "What?"

"Five days is nothing. They keep the really crazy ones at least two weeks, sometimes more."

"How long did you stay?"

"Fifteen days," I say, and smile. Emma just stares. Yes, I'm one of the crazy ones, and proud of it. Then I glance at the clock, "Oh look. Time for dinner. I'll show you around."