Lunch was such a waste for Emma. There seemed to be no point in eating. Lately though, there seemed to be no point in anything. Every event in Emma's life seemed to be just part of a sequence of a story that ended with her death. But, she was the writer of her own story. If her supposed friends and family hadn't taken her pen away from her, she'd still be writing the part where the little blonde feminist was shooting up with the college aged addicts that lived a block away from her. Of course, those wretched people who were close to her; like her mother, Toby, Chris, JT, and Manny decided that she shouldn't be writing that in her book. No, it wasn't a good thing! Who were they to tell her whether or not she was supposedly harming herself? It made her feel better!

As she robotically moved her fork around her plate to make designs with her food, she heard the chatter of those…druggies at the other side of her table. One of them included her room mate, Fiona. Every time those people so much as glanced at Emma, she was reminded of how she shouldn't have been there. She wasn't one of them.

 "Does she talk," a rusty haired man asked Fiona. "She's been here a month and I haven't ever heard her say a word."

The brunette shook her head, "No, Doug. She's never said a word to me. I guess she really couldn't relate to me though." Fiona let out a meek chuckle as her blue eyes fell upon Emma. "I was too much of a wimp to do the hard shit like she did. And I found out she was a really good student at Degrassi, I wonder what would have possessed her to do it."

Doug looked up at her and let out a massive sigh, "Well, have you tried talking to her?"

The blonde's ears perked up at the sound of her name. There they were again, talking about her as if she were some pathetic mute. There seemed to be no point in anything anymore. The pain was coming back, all of that emotional pain that had caused her to drift over to the dark side. She had to bottle up and sell it to people on the street for forty cents a pop. Or maybe she could sink into the paradise island as the effects of her savior drug diffused through her body. Unfortunately, drugs were supposedly bad. And no one really wanted Emma to be bad. Oh, pure Emma couldn't intoxicate herself with the demonic drugs. Pure Emma would then have no other way to escape her emotional prison.

Heroin good for Emma. Emma need heroin. Emma slowly going crazy without her beloved.

"Oh thank god, you're alive, Emma," a concerned Manny cried as she adorned the side of Emma's hospital bed and tears streamed from her face. "I…can't believe you! If you have problems, you can talk to me about them!"

"You could've killed yourself," Toby pointed out as he stood on the other side. "What were you thinking?!"

The voices buzzed around Emma's head and streamed through her ears like a river tearing through the rolling country side. These memories were taunting her. It reminded her that everyone was truly against her. It was that way since she was younger. No one could possibly appreciate Emma Nelson for raising the most money for the "Save the Whales" fundraiser. They all were brainwashed into thinking that she was peculiar and should avoid her like the plague.

"Why are you staring at me," Emma snapped viciously at Doug and Fiona. "Do you think if you stare at me long enough, I'll do a trick?! Are you people amused by simplistic things like that? God, why am I even here? I don't belong here!"

The rusty haired man cleared his throat, "Emma, darling, we all have our reasons for being here. Everyone is here to help you."

With those words escaping Doug's lips, Emma stomped off while her stomach let out an earth shattering grumble. Eating wasn't that important. Heroin was more important. Her dreams seemed to be drenched in the drug as visions of needles danced across her eyes. This intense desire was seizing her body like a contagious disease that spread through your body at an alarming rate.

Withdrawal was such a horribly unattractive thing to Emma. It was an absolute anguish as well. Her needs and her wants seemed to fuse together to form a horrid monster that took over her body. The old Emma was just a mere echo lost in heroin flooded cave as the new Emma slowly crawled out of the cave and made her debut. Emma didn't notice this complete change in herself. All she would notice was how many days it had been since her savior had diffused through her veins. Of course, this seemed to be the last time that this was going to happen. All of those traitors in her life thought that she needed help. No, no, no, they needed help! It was them who had those tainted thoughts of Emma being an addict. Why were they being so critical? This was the way she was living her life and they should accept it. Plus, it was a better way than theirs. Unlike them, she could float away from the emotional pain that was buried deep inside her.

After the lunch incident, no one bothered talking to Emma after that. It seemed a bit too risky, since she was practically a time bomb waiting to go off at any second. There was no timer, just someone lighting the fuse. None of them wanted to be person responsible for the tragedy. Of course, there was that one person who had assembled the dynamite to be used for a bomb. And only that one person could pry it apart back into the separate materials. Of course, this person probably couldn't be bothered for such a thing. They were too busy with themselves. It seemed as though everyone was too busy for Emma. Emma didn't matter. She wasn't anyone's top priority. Maybe this was how her inadequacy complex was conceived.

Her fingers gripped around her pillow as a river of tears ran down from the mountains known as her eyes. It had been thirty six days since the heroin had filled through her veins and opened the door that led away from the pain and anguish of reality. Her depression led to her addiction which somehow led to withdrawal which in turn led to even more depression. Emma wasn't strong enough to stop this vicious cycle. It felt as though during this period in her life, she had been running in a hamster's wheel, attempting to run towards bliss. Alas, that never happened for the blonde environmentalist. What was bliss though? There was absolutely no universal definition for it. It seemed to be different for every single person. This concept aided in Emma justifying her "problem". If that was the way she achieved bliss, then so be it. It was her life. Sure, her mother and biological father aided in making it, but she was the ringmaster of the Emma Nelson three ring circus.

"It's my life," She sobbed into her pillow. After attempting to collect herself, Emma grabbed a piece of paper and a pen off of the night stand. It took her a minute to actually remember why she was holding then raven black pen and paper in her hand. Finally, it clicked in her head. With the pen to paper, Emma scrawled down her thoughts on it.

June 23rd

It seems as though I'm the main attraction of this freak show. It's been exactly thirty three days since I've been here, thirty six days since I last shot up. I feel as though I've just jumped off a canyon wall and I'm waiting to hit the rock bottom of the canyon. I haven't eaten in three days, simply because there is no point. It seems as though there hasn't been a point to anything in my life. Well…there were those days where I was a happy person in junior high. Nothing was really complicated back then, except the whole Sean thing. But everything went down hill since then.

It's somewhat painful, recalling all of these memories and what not. So let's just have a cliff notes version. There is nobody there for me. There was one person, but obviously he has more important things to worry about than me.

I wish I had some matches, so I could burn this piece of paper to prevent anyone from reading it. Also, I could burn down this hellhole and escape.

Instead of set ablaze to the loose leaf paper, she started shredding it into many pieces. With each piece of paper that had been ripped, it made Emma feel a tad better. Nothing could make her achieve her state of absolute bliss that she yearned so much for. No, the exit on that one way highway had been passed eons ago. As she stared at the shredded paper that had danced across the wooden floor, she picked up then pen. With the pen in hand, she drew a rather large "S" on her arm before collapsing on the bed against her tear-soaked pillow.