Blah, blah, blah.

The teacher stands at the front of the classroom, rambling on about things that no one will use in ten years anyway. Papers shuffle, seats squeak. The lawnmower plows around outside, breaking the awkward questioned silence like a droning bee.

Someone answers. Wrong. No one else tries.

I sit bored, dazed, smiling as the lawnmower drowns out the teacher’s voice. She speaks up but we still fail to hear her. No one cares enough to listen anyway.

I can’t wait until class is over.

I will leap from my seat, dash for the hall and probably forget something in my haste to abandon the hellhole the consumes my life for the moment.

Another interruption. Over the P.A. this time. Something about photos.

Nine kids are resting their heads on their hands and two are sleeping. I slept during first so I am not tired.

Boredom.

The clock says 10:05. I say “Fuck you.” But not out loud. Silently in my head so people don’t think I’m crazy. 55 minutes left.

The girl beside me says a funny comment about the ancient microscopes looking like dildos. We both laugh at the teachers words: “People started making them elaborately and everyone wanted one because it was the cool thing.” But her laugh is real. Mine is fake.

I listen for a moment or two but I am lost so I don’t bother to continue. I miss my book. I miss my CD. I miss my grandpa.

I miss my freedom from this class.

Maybe I’ll drop it, I think. But no, I can’t do that. The parental units would freak. Why does an art student need science?

No clue.

The teacher is now criticizing someone for speaking out of turn. Yep, I really miss freedom.

Fuck Authority plays in my head. I like that song. I’d never take charge but I’d like to imagine doing it. The track changes to Cemetery Drive. Sadness flows through me suddenly and I can feel my stomach drop into the familiar depressing pit it has spent so many months in over time. No, I think, I will not be unhappy. But of course, it doesn’t work that way. Crazy people can’t control their minds.

Or feelings.

I’ve been contemplating telling someone. But no one would believe me. I’m a good actress and it’s damned my happiness.

No one knows.

The girl says another crude but funny comment. I laugh but it is weak.

No one knows.

The phrase repeats in my head over and over.

No one knows.

No one notices the scars, or the fake smiles, or the dark circles under my eyes.

They say with depression sleep goes either way; too much or too little. I’m under the second category. I got around three hours of sleep last night. Less than the regular four. I’m tired.

And no one knows.

I like dazing out. My brain becomes lazy and comfortable as my tired eyes unfocus themselves on a spot near the floor. I yawn.

Must…pay…attention.

It’s no use. I’m not learning anything other than the disgusting things that live on our skin. Gross. Who wants to know?

I am not a quiet person but I am quiet now. I’m not a depressing person but I’m depressed now. I try not to think about going home. It’s worse there.

At home, there’s nothing to distract me from the thoughts that cloud my mind. The thoughts that haunt both my waking and dreaming states. They follow me through the realms where my mind travels. They are my darkness.

They are my shadow.

Sometimes they crawl out of my mind and into my eyes to let tears flow heavily. Sometimes they take over my thoughts and control what I’m doing. Those are the bad times. The worst times.

The times I regret most afterwards.

Mostly when I’m in a rut, I drink. I like alcohol. It’s my antidepressant, although it makes things worse by irrationalizing my mentality. Making me do stupid things. Once I tried to get out and away from my miserable household. It didn’t work. I fell out of the window and gave myself a black eye. I get drunk after I sneak out now.

Mostly when I leave, I go to the lake. I sit on my rock watching the moon grow brighter and rise in the sky. I usually go home when it’s somewhat behind me. Around one or two.

If I don’t go to the lake, the cemetery is my next choice. There’s two around here, on the same street. I go to the one farthest from my house and sit by the conjoined graves of two people, newly married who died in their prime. Their grave is conjoined. They were 21 and 23. It depresses me more that I’m happier around dozens of corpses than I am around my family. My happily sleeping family.

I don’t know sleep.

It’s been four days. I have gotten eleven hours of sleep. Total. The average teenager needs 9.25 per night. Somehow I don’t think 3 hours or less is enough.

My friends are worried. I can see it in their eyes although I know they’re afraid to ask. My boyfriend complains about my sullen attitude. I tell him to go fuck himself.

I can understand where he’s coming from.

I go to the bathroom at lunch and see the dark purple circles under my eyes and grimace. The make up I used to cover it this morning has worn off. I apply more but it’s still quite noticeable.

“You look like shit.” Someone tells me. I ignore them, not caring. It was one of my friends from the year before. She leaves and I feel guilty for a second before shrugging it off.

Friends don’t matter anymore.

Pictures of sadness cover the papers that spill out of my binder as I drop it, trying to stuff it into my locker. I sigh and pick them up. I can feel people staring as I gather them in a pile.

They must think I’m weird too, I think to myself as I see one girl in particular make a face as she stares at the grotesque picture of a person holding their dripping, broken heart. Cliché. I don’t care.

I’ve been pushed over the edge today.

I’ve been dumped today.

Something about harsh words and PMS. It’s not PMS if it’s lasted for the last six months, you dumb fuck.

But I’d never say that. I don’t want anyone to know anymore because I don’t want to be saved. I’d rather wallow in my own self-induced depression than get help. I’d rather die than get help.

Because that’s what I’m planning.

My parents are leaving this weekend. Brother’s at a sleepover. Tomorrow night’s the night.

I know I’ve brought this on myself. I know it’s my fault. I know, I know, I know. I was the one that didn’t tell anyone at the start, I was the one who snapped unreasonably at my boyfriend to cause him to finally do the thing I know he’s been planning for the last few weeks. I just wish he would have told me the truth about it and not made up lies about how he didn’t think I loved him. He knew I loved him. He saw it as he was telling me and had to look away. The bastard couldn’t even look me in the eye.

He couldn’t even look at my face.

My face that’s now contorted in pain as I make the small, relieving cuts on my arm. I’m testing the razor.

I’ve written my letter. My parents will still hate me. My mother told me that once. “If you ever turn to suicide and take the cowards way out, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life…”

The memory makes me cry. I had kept the tears in until now, thinking that I’d be less willing to chicken out if I kept it inside.

But it’s already coming out in tears and blood.

My heartbeat quickens as I push the razor into my skin. I’m drunk again. I don’t want to be sober for this. I drag it downwards towards my inner elbow and feel a sharp sting. I bite my lip.

I repeat this two more times on that wrist and three more on the next. I’ve opened all the veins I can see.

After a few minutes I feel weak. I can’t believe how much blood has come.

Ten minutes pass. Fuzziness clouds my mind.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

When is it going to end?

“Always up or down, never down and out…” I sing quietly with my weak voice through the tears I haven’t been able to keep in.

I think of the people I’ll miss. My parents, my brother. My boyfriend, sorry, ex. My friends. Everyone will hate me now. I don’t like thinking about that.

That everyone will hate the memory of me. They’ll call me a coward and curse me for doing this. They’ll blame me for future therapists they see.

They’ll hate me.

“I’ll hate you for the rest of my life…”

Please don’t hate me, mommy, I think. I would have said it out loud but I couldn’t. My voice is gone. I can’t move anymore. I vaguely wonder how long it took.

For me to die.

Then my consciousness and life fade away like they were never there.