Disclaimer: I do not own the "Jesus of Suburbia" song or video. Any music used for inspiration or as the title of a chapter is the sole property of Green Day, I am simply borrowing some of their ideas for a plotline. Reviews (especially constructive criticism) are welcome, if anyone is actually reading this. Sorry this chapter is so short; I promise to fit more in the next one.

And here we go... :D

Day 50, 5:34 p.m.

The sharpie feels slick and powerful in my hand as I twist the cap off and hold it between my teeth. Where to start? There aree so many possibilities. The mirror, for instance, or the toilet seat covered in god-knows-what. And I'm not even sure he does.

Oh, screw that. I'll just start with the wall.

It only takes a few minutes before a thousand angry faces are glaring back at me, two thousand disapproving eyes. I ink a large blot in the center, pressing the tip in until it breaks. Black splatters against the tile, and I connect the dots into a jagged spiral. And then I'm on a roll. Hearts, people, animals bleeding all over the page, smashed under tires. Spiked zigzags that resemble words, contorted with rage. Chain link fences, metal wires, smoking joints. I let it all flow into the structure of the neighborhood 7-11 while the employees sneak a smoke or fix smoothie machines, completely unaware of the mayhem in the unisex bathroom. I draw until the marker tip is a fanned out banana peel and what's left of the ink has smeared all over my palm. I pause in that one perfect moment, surrounded by a life's worth of rage, until I finally realize what I'm waiting for, what will never happen: for someone to find me.

A switch goes off in my head, and the marker takes a death plunge as I sink down to the floor. Hot, wet tears run quietly down my face, embarrassed to even exist, though they don't need to be because I'm as good as invisible. I steal a glance in the mirror and there I am, black eyeliner streaks surrounded by thicket of wild ebony, squeezing my head against the pounding noise of hurt and betrayal.

I just can't handle it anymore. Home. Noise. Everything.

Two pills, so innocent and white. Printed with labels of illegible letters, intended for medical use.

These parcels of death will determine my fate.