15th

It’s not like she intended to end up there. No one blamed her for what she did.

Or at least that’s what they told her.

So now, once every two weeks she sits where this lady in a tiny room; they’ll talk; nothing gets through.

She says: I hate my mother.

The lady’ll respond: Why?

“Why?” Does there really need to be a reason? It was that crazy “mother” that put her in this room once every two weeks with the lady. Her name is Kylie.

The week she isn’t with Kylie, she’s in another small room with another lady, the mother, the father, the sister. A family unit. Quite dysfunctional.

All the mother does is talk about work. All the rest want her to shut up. She doesn’t care about the mother’s jobs. She doesn’t want to hear it.

This little room is depressing. She hates the little room. But what is she to do? She attempted suicide. Three times. Three times the failure. She’s lucky they only know about the one. No one has seen the scars on her inner thighs as well.

Fake a smile. Act happy. She’ll be out of here in no time.

The country is dependant on Prozac. She never understood why. Until now. She understands now. And a bottle of fucking Prozac is looking better and better the more she comes and sits in those little rooms every week. For one hour. On Tuesdays. With Kylie. With Laurie.

Dear Lord! the voices will come! Maybe she shouldn’t be here. And asylum! is what she requires.

Smile. Be happy. She’ll be out of here soon.

Yet it’s fairly hard. How can she put on an act now?

Fourteen and clinically depressed. How much worse can it get?

Just try and smile in a tiny room and forget that today’s your fucking birthday.

On February fifteenth.

On Friday. On February fifteenth. She laughs again.

All she had to do was fake a smile. Act happy. She was out of there in no time. But it’s funny how the one thing that was supposed to help just did the opposite.

Just light a cigarette and forget. On February fifteenth.

Can I ask: is it still my birthday?