I honestly never really viewed myself as mentally ill, even when I was staring death straight in its ugly face. Its yellow-tinted teeth shaped into a snarling grin as if its ready to capture me right in its menacing paws. I've never felt good enough in my whole damn life, but death sure made me feel wanted. It made me feel beautiful in a way, like I was the queen for once and not the invisible maiden. You see the peculiar thing about death is that normal teenagers tremble in its path, but when dealing with myself I close my eyes and breathe in its sweet aroma. That's why the doctors call me mental; they've called me 'anorexic' so many times you'd think it was my name. My real name is Clare Edwards, but no one really gives a shit anyway so I didn't expect the doctors to know my name without looking at a clipboard. In this place, your illness defines you. It defines your name, your meals, your cloths, even the people you talk too. The doctors tell me they're me friends and they care about me, but I know they're all liars. Death is the only demon I can ever count as a companion, the way it always infects my mind and reaches out to me in my time of need. Isn't that what a friend tries to do?
3 months earlier
"We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off." One of my favorite quotes from Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. I doubt my super intellectual advanced English class spared me the empathy I was seeking. Almost every hormonal teenager in this dumb course is a cookie cutter momma's girl, and as always I am the outcast who always had ripped jeans and messy hair. You could say my sense of style had an exact reflection of my personal life... no my life overall actually.
As my words came to an end, the class gave me a robotic applause with a dead eye kind of look. You know, the "I feel bad for you because your work was really shitty" type of clap. My English teacher Mrs. Dahhs didn't even comment on my research paper over good ole Chuck. It's obvious she's the type of teacher that loathes creativity and self expression in any type of class work. In a way I think this is sort of what Chuck was implying too. I always had this unrealistic dream of fame and fortune that would spout from my writing, but it seems as if reality hates my determination, trying to crush my creativity like a cockroach in a bathroom stall.
"Mister Goldsworthy please share your work with the class." 'Mister' Goldsworthy. The alternate misfit of this class with brilliant writing skills and a taste for the dark side. He mainly wore black on black skinny jeans with old band tee shirts. I guess he would fit into that punk rock scene although I can't ever imagine Eli Goldsworthy smoking in an alley with a bunch of troublemakers. He dressed like a metalhead, but was actually abnormally quiet.
"Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer." My ears perched at this very familiar line from Fight Club. How ironic is it that someone I've never even spoken too chooses the same topic to research. I'm not very much insulted by the choice of his topic, but more so intrigued by his interests. Who knows what's going on inside his little mind of wondrous shits and giggles? I'm very ponderous on the idea if he wonders the same about me.
His words flow fluently as he shifts his eyesight from the audience to the paper. The threatening tone of his research almost makes his writing seem like a tragic novel instead of a boring research paper. Goddamn this kid really knows how to write. He took his creativity and shoved it straight towards Mrs. Dahh's face. His work was more morbid than ten ancient Indian rituals rolled into one big ceremony. I couldn't tame the smirk edging at the corner of my lips. I admired his writings and the way he kept himself so hidden from the world. He was one big mystery masterpiece himself.
"Thank you Eli. You may take a seat." I found my hands being the first to applaud his excellent work except I wasn't a robot. I was alive.
The bell rang for the end of the day just as he took his seat over by the near corner of the classroom. I quickly and clumsily scooped up my papers and dumped them in my backpack. I've never been the type for orderliness even whenever I lose important homework assignments; I still remain stubborn on cleaning out my back pack. Eli doesn't really seem like the messy type, He seems like he would care about every little dust particle. Almost like he was OCD or one of those clean freaks. I've always been obsessed with figuring out the puzzle he gives off to the whole damn school. I'd kill just to get close to him and pick around in his little fucked up mind. I bet I'd discover a lot of tragedies I could relate too.
I'm dreading the long walk back to the perfect little Edwards house; I used to take the short route home until that God awful night. I can feel myself beginning to sweat as my heart paces to the speed of techno music whilst thinking about it. I need a distraction, I haven't thought about it all day and it's been a week since my last flashback. I search frantically for some form of aid from the future panic attack that was awaiting me.
"Hey Clare! Do you want to come over tonight and have a girl's night? My parents are out and me and jonnie are fighting again as usual. I need some girl time with my bestie." Of course Ali always comes to me whenever she needs detoxing or some type of help with a social issue.
"I don't know Ali. I was planning on writing the rest of my short story tonight for English. You know how much school means to me." Ali scuffed as I spilled my 'I'm a good girl' speech to her.
"C'mon Clare take a break and chill for a little bit. Just come over for two hours tops. Please I really need a distraction." Ali pleaded once more.
"Okay fine Ali, but I'm only staying for two hours at least." Ali shrieked with excitement at my surrender to her request. She quickly took my hand and drug me along with her to her two story palace of a house.
"So I have someone I want you to meet whenever we get to my house." My eyes automatically gave off my frustration towards Ali considering she's been trying to hook me up with random guys for the past month.
"Before you judge me Clare Edwards, I'm begging you to just give this one a chance, and he's a really sweet guy. He's sensitive and he's also a writer! You love writing! Its like you guys are perfect for each other!" the tone in her voice gave me a snarky edge. I'm getting real tired of this shit.
"What's so bad about being single Ali? What if I don't want a boyfriend right now? And just because he likes to write doesn't mean we are perfect for each other!" I unintentionally raised my voice.
"I'm sorry Clare, I've just been worried about you lately with what happened with KC and Jenna. I just thought maybe some company would help you get over him." I'm honestly fine with KC now, Ali is just stuck in the past. I've completely fine…or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
"Ali I'm already over KC. I don't want another relationship though. Right now is just not a good time." Just as I finished my sentence we rounded the corner to see Ali's house come into play.
"Just come in and meet him. He's supposed to be here to help Sav with his calculus homework. Please I promised him he would get to meet you because he's been really sad lately. His girlfriend just broke up with him a few weeks ago." Ugh. Ali always makes promises she can barely keep. She really owes me big time for fulfilling her promise she made without me knowing that I was involved. I did feel for this mystery guy however. I know how difficult it is trying to get over a breakup.
"fine." I say harshly while barging through the door not realizing there was someone standing on the other side.