Chapter 2

They tell me that they know what I am going through.

They tell me I have an obsession of the mind.

What they say I forget 30 seconds after they say it. I sit there and barely listen as I think about my parents’ medicine cabinet.

My blood is itchy.  My skin pays the price.

The meeting ends, I stand up and leave as they hold hands and pray.

People follow me and give me pieces of paper with their phone numbers on it.  I take them knowing that I will not call them.

Just don’t use tonight. 

Ok. 

I walk out the door and see my father’s car.  All I want to do is get in that car, but people feel the need to interrupt my walk. I want nothing to do with these people.

The way home is silence.

As we walk inside my father tells me to get some sleep. 

Ok.

Just don’t use tonight.

Ok.

He walks up the stairs.

I watch TV until the spaces between movement upstairs grows to a point where they may be asleep.

My assault on the medicine cabinet heeded nothing of use.

I look under the counter.  They have removed the liquor besides two bottles of wine.  I imagined them thinking that I wouldn’t be that desperate, that I wouldn’t touch the bottles due to a fear of them noticing.

I can’t find a wine opener so I use a knife to get the cork out.

Both bottles are empty in five minutes. 

It isn’t enough.

It’s never enough.

I lie on my bed and stare at my cell phone. She bought it for me.

It rings. It’s her.

I called to tell you that the rest of your stuff is at your grandparent’s house.

How was school today?

Good. 

How is the puppy?

Albus is good.

Does he miss me?

Did you drink tonight?

No.

I have to go.

She hangs up because she has the belief that saying goodbye to somebody on the phone is redundant.  That hanging up serves the same purpose. 

I can’t sleep, so I think.

I think, so I can’t sleep.

I get out of my bed and head to the kitchen.

All the poison has been removed from underneath the sink.

I look into the medicine cabinet again, still nothing of use.

I get back to my bedroom and lay on my bed.

I look up at the ceiling. 

There is something written.  I put on my glasses.

Your low self-esteem is just good common sense.

I fall asleep and I dream of Her.

And I am glad that I don’t know the future.

Because if I would of known that I would dream of Her every night for six months, my search for poison under the sink wouldn’t have stopped so quickly.