1
'Depressed' isn't the right term to describe me but it's the first term that comes to mind. I wonder why.
School - the bane of every existing teen in the world. I hated that I had to go to that place, 5 days in a week, and associate with people who I couldn't give a single crap about; to endure long hours of other people gossiping about their meaningless lives; to be in a crowd full of attention whores; to be under authority. Authority is such a below the belt excuse for people to show off how much power they have. It's pathetic why we all want something as dull as power.
"Caitlin, sweetie, get down, breakfast is served!" My mom yelled from below. Clutching the comforter even tighter, I pulled it over my head and groaned loudly. Why? Why would I need to go to school? Can't I just be home-schooled or something? Besides, I was suicidal, someone who would probably die around her 20s at the tip of a well-sharpened blade; where would that knowledge even go? They always decide that children should learn this and that, but what's the point?
I knew enough already. Or a lot more than 'enough'; depends on how you measure enough.
The only thing that keeps me from completely giving up on education is my gory desire to learn about life, what keeps it going on and on without being a screwed up mess. Sighing, I climbed out of my bed, took a quick shower, and got dressed. My attire, as usual, came in the form of a long-sleeved shirt with some really loose jeans and a pair of flat shoes. I never was one to dress up with my entirety showing. I picked up an old bag hiding at the bottom of my bed and shoved in a notebook, a pen, a cutter, and a pack of cigarettes. I caressed the fabric of the bag and allowed myself a little smile. "Cait!"
"Coming!" Hurriedly walking down the stairs, I looked at my mom and felt something eat me from the inside.
My mom looked at me lovingly, warm, and hopeful. She had brown wavy hair framing her fair face and a smile so different from mine. She just looked so alive until I caught her eye.
I frowned upon witnessing the bags under my mother's eyes; she had been crying, presumably because of dad. Unable to look her in the eye, I diverted my attention to the door, fidgeting under the weight of her stare. "I'll be going out now, mom. Don't wait up." "But-", "It's okay, they serve great mac-n-cheese every Monday." I deadpanned, feeling my mother's disappointment.
Ever since my dad and my mom started to fight, I drifted away from this familial bond; always in pain; always a failure; always alone. This isn't as bad as you think it is; like what my favorite hero, Sherlock Holmes, said, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." He has a point. When everyone leaves you in the dark; to whom do you turn to? I turn to the shrouds of loneliness; the only thing that truly stays with me until the very end.
Oh, and the Mac-n-Cheese is horrible.
Half the classes in the morning – I barely paid any attention to. They recycle the same lesson every single year, letting our dull little minds believe that we learn something new when in fact, it's just an upgraded version of the base knowledge that we already have. It's as if it was already in our minds but we just didn't know how to use them until they made us realize certain topics and then putting yet another layer of boundaries so that next year, we'll have something "new" to learn. For a world wanting to advance and get closer to the future, it sounds a little lazy.
Math – it always will be addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division; they only added letters but the same fundamentals apply. It irritates me to no end that teachers and books always throw in fancy terms to make their lessons seem interesting. It doesn't make anything better; it doesn't pique our interests; it only confuses us.
The bell rings and I have seemingly dozed off during History class. Something about Christopher Columbus is written on the board. Yes, Christopher Columbus, again. And an assignment on how the world was proven to be a sphere. It's always like this. Teacher gives a lesson. Teacher then gives an assignment related to the next topic. The basic teacher kit.
The routine.
It's driving me crazy. My eyes squint at the sight of sunlight pouring out from the window that is unluckily enough, where I sit beside. I saw my classmates rushing out of the room; 20-something people running towards the arms of their friends who back stab them every now and then. I see their fake smiles and fake interests and fake movements and I almost vomit at the sight. Why would I need enemies if I had friends like them? The teacher looks at me, confusion all over her wrinkly face and messy bun. She looked like she was about to say something not before I make the first move. "Yes, Ms. Hartley, there is an assignment and I do know that Christopher Columbus discovered America by accident." I tell her, almost like a programmed machine; my eyes never leaving her green and tired ones. Satisfied, she smiled and walked out the room.
I sat there for a while, motionless, and felt an itch bubble up my throat. The itch signaled me that I haven't smoked in a while. Coughing, I stood up; grabbed my bag and went directly to the cafeteria.
Why did there always have to be a clique? I look across the tables and I see groups huddled in circles. Do people really need to leech off someone else to feel like they had a purpose? Pathetic. I looked to my right, girls laughing in a manner so forced; Luke Skywalker would get beaten. Looking at them telling jokes told over a hundred times and talking about a love life that will only end in bittersweet tragedy; a few cuts on their wrists; and of course the process of moving on. I breathe in a puff of smoke. I never had to do that. Friends were sentimental. We all know that sentiment always leads to a great disadvantage, don't you agree? If it weren't for this sentiment, a lot of movies would've ended a whole lot quicker. IF this cliché was to be erased from our minds, things would've been simpler. I look up at the sky, letting its natural blue hue sink in my head. I had a lot of questions. Like, why is blue – blue? Why do I have to hide my smoking just because they expect so much of me? Why does caring make us human? Why do I bleed?
Bleed. I always bleed. I bleed every night, don't you know?
Every time I have to listen to my parents fight, my heart bleeds from too much pain. They always fight over the same thing; over and over and over again like a broken stereo. My parents would fight it out even in things that aren't even that important. Say, a lost car key would lead to accusations of my dad being with another woman. Financial problems would lead to my mom's fault of spending too much. They always find ways to fight and every single time, I am forced to listen. Every time I hear them say it's my fault on why they're separating, my mind bleeds from too much wondering why? I do my best to be as good as I can be. I'm already at the 2nd spot of my class; already bagging contests and making the school proud but this won't ever be enough, would it? I always ask myself on why I could be the reason for their separation; several hypotheses would face me but the most probable one screams at me in bold, red colors, "YOU ARE A MISTAKE." Am I? Am I the biggest mistake they've made? Every time I cut, I bleed. Literally. Frowning, I pulled up the long sleeves, revealing about 7 cuts, some fresh and new; some dried and old. Each cut has a story; stories that start different but always end in the same form, in the same arm, in the same person. I wonder how much blood I wasted that could've saved a dying leukemic person.
I'm such an ungrateful bitch.
The sound of the bell resonates throughout the field and I burn out the cigarette. Walking towards the class hallways, I bump into a figure. Knowing that English is next as well as a book report in the said subject, I didn't have time to look at his face. I muttered an apology and headed my way. Only after I have sat down, listening to my classmates' desperate attempt to have a grade above 75 that I realized I haven't eaten anything during lunch.
So much for Mac-n-Cheese.
It was a crappy day. We didn't have science during Mondays which made the day worse. The hours passed by and finally, it was time I went home. Home. I stifled a laugh. Which is a better hell? To be forced to spend 10 hours cramming junk in your head to make you feel worn out, stressed, and crappy or to be forced to listen to your parents fight, fight, and fight? The streets were quiet as my steps grew heavier and heavier and heavier. The quiet autumn breeze swept the leaves in one place yet it scattered me in many. I don't want to go home. I don't. I don't. I don't. Biting down on my lower lip, I feel as if my body betrayed me. I held the knob of our house, a building as white as snow and a structure that resembled that of a haunted house. It may look haunted but it isn't what scares me. What scares me are the demons living inside. Everybody's got their demons, I guess it's time I faced mine. Click. Not a warm 'Hello.' Not a hug. Not even the house welcomed me. Here I was, alone, like always.
I rushed up the stairs and went into the bathroom, fumbling my bag for spare blades. Nothing. I couldn't find it. Tons of thoughts invaded my personal thinking space and one leads into another. The pros, the cons; the actions and their consequences. I panicked. I gulped down the anxiety threatening to color my face. It's okay. I'll find it. I always find it. If not, then, that's okay too; I can always buy a new set but what if- My head hurts from too much thinking. Cait, breathe in. I inhale and a sharp turn of breath enters my system. Breathe out.
It's going to be alright.
What if my mom found them and threw them all away? How could I tolerate their screams? They're going to scream at me and I would have to face them and, and, and-
How the hell would I find my escape?
"It must be here somewhere. Somewhere, somewhere." I threw everything out my bag, the insides cluttering to the side and relaxed when I found it. I let out a relieved sigh as hot tears slid down my face. When did I become so fucking weak? When did I become this addicted? When did I become so much of a destruction?
"What's wrong with me?" I whispered, imagining that someone was listening to me. I have never felt as alone as I was at that moment.
I liked it, no, I loved it. I'd never admit it but I did. I liked the coolness of the floor; the sound of rushing water; the tangy smell of warm blood; the metallic texture and weight of the blade digging deep in my skin; the pain. I'd tell myself that it was because I was depressed or an insomnia cor mental, even;but deep inside, I knew the truth. My tongue spun webs of lies and it was my special way of feeling calm. It fascinates me how our bodies are nothing but shells of flesh and blood. We are nothing special; you'd think our emotions pour out every time we bleed, that our memories somehow infuse themselves within our systems but they don't. Sickness and pain do. And so every time the blade caresses my skin, I felt alive as the neurons crawl fervently, sending such a frenzy of messages to my brain. A flurry of pain, excitement, and shivers would spread throughout me. The feeling could never be matched by any other thing and so I hunger for more. More and more and more until my wrists turn blue and then I would be fascinated all over again.
You don't need crayons to color the Caitlin coloring set; just a pair of blades and you're good to go.
I could even recite the path from where I felt the pain, leading towards every single nerve, every receptor it goes through because I have always been in love with anatomy. The mere thought of life and death brings upon a tilt of my lips.
It was very interesting. Science had always been my favorite subject since I was a kid, except maybe for physics because up until today, I just didn't care about Newton, about gravity, or about mass, etc., I cared about life. I wanted to be a doctor someday, or a lawyer, or an accountant or…thinking about it made my head spin, so I settled for dead, I wanted to be dead someday. And I didn't know when, but someday, I know that I'll be lying down in some morgue - cold, lifeless, and worthless and having some sick pathologist examine my body head to toe; probably shaking her head at how much of a waste I'd become. I think about what the pathologist would say, "Such a waste, she had such great potential." That's what they all say, isn't it? Oh, if only the dead could talk. What does Newton, gravity, force, have to say about that?
Looking down at my arms, pale, bloody, and looked like some kid's stick figure; I snorted; too many lines. I hated it, how it looked so messy; I liked the pain but I never liked how messy it got. The sink was full of my color, varying from maroon to an ugly red. My mom and dad are getting a divorce. It didn't take a genius to figure that one out. All the fighting, all the late night escapades; I wasn't a little kid and I had ears, eyes, and a brain. It's insulting that they think that I don't know; highly intelligent and they played me for an idiot. I thinks dad's not that good at his job either; a psychiatrist yet he can't even play the role for his daughter. No wonder, we were slowly doing budget cuts. Humming a nursery rhyme from when times were easier, I continued to cut and cut and cut until I began to sing, "Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb."
I was just sick and tired of the world I live in. Maybe, JUST MAYBE when I die, I'll live in another world, preferably without idiots running around. "Mary had a little lamb whose-"
"Fleece was white as snow."
I wasn't sure if it was the blood loss or the pills I drank; but I could definitely see a boy with brown hair and a piercing stare, around my age, standing by the door, watching me cut. Probably too much listening to artists like Halsey and Green Day. I was creeped out but I still wasn't sure if it was just my mind playing tricks so I continued with my act, a little light-headed. "You know, for someone who wants to die, you're doing it wrong." The boy smiled, not budging form the door frame. He was definitely real. Annoyed, I told him off, "What are you doing here? Actually, who the hell are you?" The blood loss sure took its toll because I felt myself getting dizzier and dizzier. I almost slipped when he caught me, a genuine smile on his face.
He felt warm.
Pushing him away, I let the bath sink support my weight and he took the blade from my hands and demonstrated it on his arm, the blade simply hovering an inch above his skin. His breathing was normal as if he did this a thousand times making me watch with interest and awe. "See, you should cut vertically and harder. They can't stitch that one up. You aren't doing death justice at all." He motioned it, slightly grazing his wrist and gave it back to me, chuckling.
"You can't tell me how to die."
"I can't, but you're not actually planning on doing it, so what's the point? Stop teasing death for God's sake." Frustrated, I pushed him away, mad. "Who are you anyway? And, how'd you get in here?" My brows furrowed at the figure who towered over me.
The boy merely smiled, "Hi, Ms. Suicidal. I'm Mr. Homicidal."
I didn't move, he was a stranger after all. He detected my stiffness and further explained, "I'm one of your daddy's patients? Kind of mentally unstable in the right places; killed a few things and well, my family decided that I should get therapy. I'm perfectly normal though." His voice was laced with a sort of optimism that was unexplainable. It was as if, he still saw the joy in his situation.
I didn't know how to react to his tone other than be irritated.
Dad had a patient? That's new. I felt blood trickle down my arm but I held my hand up anyway and shook his. He showed some kind of concern but I ignored it. I felt something, not exactly fireworks, but there was a spark; probably because his body was a lot warmer, a lot closer to life unlike mine; cold and dying. He pulled closer and whispered, "You're losing a lot of blood." I tried to struggle out of his grip but he was firm. His eyes searched the bathroom for something, anything to cover it up. I looked at him sharply but not at all expecting him to secure the scars with his handkerchief. The way he knotted it was messy. His voice sent shivers down my spine. "I don't even know you but why do I feel like I should?" I took this as a chance to lock my eyes with him and saw the same amount of sadness I wear. It only lasted for a split second because the next thing I knew, he was smirking.
All traces of that sadness was gone but I knew it was there. It really was. "I was once like you, suicidal so I'm kind of a master on this. And another advice, wouldn't want mommy or daddy seeing you cut, now, would you? Lock the door next time; that's how I got in anyway. See you tomorrow." He pulled away, patted my head and went out the door, his footsteps light. I didn't do anything at all other than let the silence sink in as the steps got lighter and lighter. I looked at myself in the mirror, at my cuts, at my reflection and replayed the boy's words over and over again as I undone his messy knot and placed his handkerchief aside. I instead focused on brushing my hands till they were raw and red, cleaning up every drop of blood from the sink and found myself smiling.
"Ms. Suicidal, huh? I like that."
I didn't cut afterwards.
This is the first ever fanfiction that I have written. Just putting it out there. It's just that I have been wanting to see a very angsty Caitlin about life, I don't know why. So, I wrote this in a version where Caitlin isn't as composed as she is in the show; she's a lot more pessimistic and realistic about the situation at hand as Barry, Barry will still be Barry. Minus the fact that he tends to be quite the little psychopath.
Also, I have based this loosely on the famous AHS: Murder House. You know, the wonderful and satisfying romance between Tate and Violet?
Reviews are appreciated as well as a hell lot of ideas because I don't exactly know where this is headed.
