A/N: TW: implied suicidal thoughts.

…

Forty right, twenty-one left, two right.

She has Physics next. God, where the hell did she put her notebook –

"Hey Caboosey!"

What –

Oh.

"Toot toot, motherfucker!"

She thought (hoped) these were done.

And then she laughs, because two days of going home in the same clothes that you arrive in doesn't mean anything, really but –

And then there's tears in her eyes and she can't hear the laughter that's ringing out around her (she's knows it's there, it's always there, why the hell wouldn't it be there) because instead it's like her ears are seashells and she hears something rushing around in her her brain like water, or embarrassment, or pure fucking hatred for the people whose laughter she can't hear.

She's hyperventilating, she thinks. And crying, because the warm wetness slipping down her face feels too clean to be a slushie. Half because there's sugary syrup in her eyes-and yes it burns like fuck-and half because she's crying and she doesn't know why and that makes her cry even harder.

She's going home. She's skipping physics and trig and health and she's going home.

"Better chugga chugga, Caboosey, and go get yourself cleaned up!"

Oh, fuck you –

She's going home. She's done.

She's done.

…

Her parents are going to be angry when they see the mess she made on the seat of her car. She knows they are.

But right now she doesn't care. She just wants to get home and clean up and crawl into bed and sleep and maybe never wake up.

That's her favorite thing, lately. Sleep. When you sleep you don't have to worry about anything, unless you're having a nightmare. But even then, you know, deep down in the back of your mind, that it's not real and that you're going to be alright.

That's the only time she ever gets that assurance; that little whisper that pokes at the back of her brain and says, "It's going to be alright, Lucy. You're going to be alright." Is when she sleeps.

She wonders if God will be the one to say that – if he ever does – and then she tries to imagine what his voice would sound like. If it would be deep and raspy but comforting like her dad's was when he'd read her to sleep before she learned how to do it herself.

Her jeans stick when she gets out of her car.

That blue imprint looks a lot sadder than it should.

…

"What – oh, dear."

Lucy is thrown off by the look on her mom's face before she realizes that no, it's not everyday that your daughter comes home stained blue and looking like that girl from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory that got turned into a blueberry.

And like Violet Beauregarde couldn't resist eating that piece of gum, Lucy couldn't resist getting her hopes up.

"Why are you – what – I..." And then her mom's mouth flaps closed and Lucy just looks at her before she darts upstairs before she has to explain that she's covered in ice and corn syrup and blue dye and that this is what happens to the unpopular kids at her school.

She closes her door, and locks it, and then slips out of her shirt and her shoes and her pants and then goes into her bathroom and just stares at herself in the mirror.

Her glasses are crusted over and she's going to have a hell of a time cleaning those off, she's sure. Her hair is hanging wetly around her face and is sticking to her forehead and she just...stares emptily at her reflection and the blue dots on her bra and her stomach and her thighs and – well, fuck, no wonder her dad can't look at her she can't even look at herself – she makes herself sick –

She hopes her mom doesn't come upstairs to check on her, but her heaving is pretty loud, she figures, so she just might.

She looks down at her sandwich and yogurt that she had for lunch, like the murky brown substance is going to tell her what to do, and then she reaches up and pushes the silver handle down and watches her not-answers twirl down the bowl.

Lucy reaches into the shower, turns the knob and lifts the switch and then hot water is pelting the bottom of the tub.

She strips, and ignores the horrible combination that vomit and slushie makes and falls into the stream.

The water burns, and it makes her skin turn pink.

She sits down, and she watches more not-answers go down the drain, this time tinted blue.

And then she thinks she cries, but she's not really sure. She can feel the sobs in her chest and she can feel how her body hiccups every so often, but she doesn't feel any tears; only the burn of the shower on her cheeks and her shoulders and her legs.

…

The softness of the inside of her sweats feel foreign, and her body still burns red.

She opens her medicine cabinet and she pulls out the sleeping pills and then takes them back to her bed, lays them on the pillow next to her.

TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH HALF AN HOUR BEFORE YOU WISH TO GO TO SLEEP – she's read it over a million times.

Her door opens and she jumps and the bottle bounces on the pillow before it bounces to the carpet and she sits up and stares at Sam, who's standing in the doorway, hair mussed and eyes wide.

"I – hi."

He looks at the pills on the floor and then back up at Lucy, and she shrinks in on herself under his gaze and tucks her legs under her, hazel darting anywhere except towards him.

"Do you want to talk about it – "

"No." She says, and his mouth slaps shut.

"Okay."

But then he's moving over to the other side of the bed and she watches him as he slips his shoes of and shrugs out of his jacket and then slips onto the bed and tells her to, "Lay down," which she does, looking at him out of the side of her vision. He settles behind her and throws an arm over her waist, which makes her tense up, shoulders raised and body pulled taut like a guitar string.

"Relax." He says, and when she doesn't, he sighs and she feels his breath against her cheek.

"I don't know what else to do, you know? If you won't talk about it, I mean."

She nods, and then laughs because she doesn't know what else to do, either, but she says, "Okay," and then a lot softer, "Thanks."

…

Her dad comes in later, and he fixes both of them with a look that's half shocked and half confused when Sam rolls quickly out of bed and back into his shoes and jacket.

"Sir."

Russell nods at him. "It's getting a bit late, don't you think?"

And then Sam nods and then waves at her and leaves, even though it's only 5:23.

He fixes her with a look of disappointment, and it doesn't cut as much as she feels like it should.

Probably because it's disappointment at the fact that he just found a boy in her bed, and not just plain disappointment in her.

She expects him to yell at her. She's sure her mom's already informed him of her coming home in the middle of the day, dripping with 'God knows what'.

"There's a stain in the living room," he says, slowly, and then backs out of the room, one hand on the doorknob. His mouth tilts up the slightest bit, and for a moment Lucy thinks he looks almost sympathetic. "I'd like it cleaned by the time you go to bed."

"Yes." She remembers the, "Sir," this time.

…

Her mom makes her soup for dinner.

It's the 100 calorie brand, and she only eats half of the can, but it tastes better than it usually does, for some reason.

She almost considers asking if she can stay home from school tomorrow – because just thinking about it is making her stomach do little hops and turns – but she thinks better of it.

…

You weren't at your locker after school today.

no. i uh. i left early.

She hopes Rachel isn't one of those people that preaches about the importance of being at school and not skipping classes and she's almost prepared to get a two-message rant.

Instead she gets; I see.

And then; I don't mean to intrude, but are you alright?

fine. She replies.

Oh, that's good. I was worried that something might be wrong.

And then, when she doesn't answer; Goodnight, Lucy.

It's only 9:34.

…

The whispered, "Are you alright?" in her ear makes her jump a little, but when she turns and looks and sees Sam's blue eyes staring back at her, she goes back to her assignment.

"Yes. Fine."

"Are you – are you sure?" He presses, and then leans forward and says, "I – Lucy, if you need to talk about something – "

"I didn't want to talk about it last night," she says, through annoyance and gritted teeth. "And I don't want to talk about it now."

His brows furrow, "I'm just trying to help, Luce – "

"I know!"

The guy in front of her glances behind him.

"Are you ever going to want to talk about it?"

She squeezes her eyes shut.

"No."

…

"Is it alright if I text you again tonight?" An anxious Rachel wonders while Lucy spins the dial on her locker.

Lucy nods, and then adds as a second thought, "As long as you don't ask me if I'm okay or if I need to talk about anything or..something like that."

She knows Sam is just trying to help. She knows he's worried about her, because, shit, if she saw him cradling a pill bottle in his hand after a rough day, she'd be worried about him, too.

But she's sick of the mumbled inquiries. She doesn't need texted ones.

Rachel nods, but fixes Lucy with a look that she can't quite decipher before she utters an, "Okay."

…

Sam's truck pulls up in front of her house and she smiles a thanks before she stumbles out of it.

"Hey, Luce?" He wonders, and she pauses, hiking her backpack higher on her shoulder and giving him a slight nod to indicate that she's listening.

"Do you need a ride tomorrow?"

"Um." She gives him a weird look. "No. It's Friday."

(Tuesdays and Thursdays are carpool days. They read once in eight grade that riding together was better for the planet, and they vowed to carpool whenever they could once they both we're able to drive.)

"I know." He says. "I just thought – "

"I can drive myself to school, thanks." She snaps.

"I never said you couldn't – " He responds, caught off guard, and that annoys Lucy even more.

She hates that she's getting annoyed with Sam and Rachel and everybody all because of a stupid fucking slushie that she should have seen coming and that she should be used to by now.

"I'll see you, Sam." She needs to get into her house. Fresh air feels suffocating, and it's scaring her, because anybody knows that that's not how it's supposed to feel.

"...Later, Luce."

…

She watches her dad pour gin and watches her mom try to discreetly slip vodka into her sprite while she makes an extreme effort not to stare and/or vomit onto her salad.

…

Disappointment.

Maybe she really doesn't want her dad to look at her, because she knows that's all she'll see.

Disappointment.

…

A/N: R & R.