Thirteen

© 2004 Black Tangled Heart

Disclaimer: Written in a random burst whilst listening to Econoline Crush. Inspired by both the book and the film, which belong to Jeffery Eugenides and Sofia Coppola.

Dedication: To Mary Helen, for being unconditionally sweet and selfless.

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They tried to get me to talk when they drove me to the hospital. With my hair wet, my lips cold, my veins showing. It wasn't like they could hear me over the high whine of the sirens, but they still shouted questions into my face. Why? How? Honey, what's the matter? And it all blurred and ran together like wet ink smudged across my diary page with careless fingers.

I didn't answer. I shook my head, and water flecked their faces. I pressed my cold lips together, concentrated on the pain in my wrists. I hadn't even felt it when I sliced them; I'd held my arms under the water. It'd been painless, noiseless, almost flawless. The pain reminds me of my failure.

Then there were bright hospital lights and a sterile smell in my nose and green walls and needles in my arm. There was gauze and stitches and questions and tears. Doctor after doctor: in smocks with stethoscopes, in suits with clipboards. Why Cecelia? Why Cecelia? Why why why? Cecelia.

The worst is yet to come, my mind told me. I left them with bland answers that solved nothing. There was nothing to solve anymore. I counted the days until my release, from hospital and life. The fish flies died after twenty-four hours, the elm was dying, and it was my turn soon.

Why? Why Cecelia?

Obviously, (whateveryournameiswhonevercaredanyway), you've never been a thirteen-year-old-girl.

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