I walk into the house, slam the door behind me. I haven't been home since this morning - it's now eleven and I'm fucking starving.
After leaving the toilets and school, I couldn't shake the anger that pulsed through me, filling me up until it felt like the emotions were splitting the seams of my skin and spilling out of me - I needed to get rid of it before I did something stupid, like jumping off the bridge in the middle of town.
I'm having way too much fun to die anytime soon.
As soon as the clock struck six I headedtowards the bad side of town, stripping off my school shirt as I went and slipping into one of the mostly male clubs in town.
I found some guy and let him fuck me over and over, until his bitch of a girlfriend showed up and I had to find another one. The evening passed in a haze, and finally I left, my thighs aching and my anger appeased.
Walking into the kitchen I fling open the fridge door, ignoring my parents sitting sombrely at the table, as usual. It takes me a couple of minutes to realise that there are more people in the room, but as soon as I do, I straighten from where I'm rummaging through a cupboard and look at them.
The entire room - some old, grey haired guy, a granny type woman, and two solid men, are staring at me.
"What?" I ask slowly, careful to hide the confusion behind a mask of bemusement.
Was my dad finally being recognised as the crazy motherfucker he was, and being taken away? Was my mum going to rehab for a habit I'd been suspecting for a long time?
And then I saw it – my notebook, lying on the table before my parents like some sort of fucking bible or something. Oh shit oh shitohshitohshitohshit...
The contents started to run through my mind, the lists of guys I fucked, some without names, because of course I didn't know half of them, the ratings beside the ones I could remember, the pages where I had calculated the money I'd need for the week, for condoms – because yes, I was careful – for cigarettes, for the coke I sometimes indulged in.
The detailed accounts of all the people I'd screwed with – the idiot came up to me again today, after all I've done to her, tried to hug me and kiss me and it was all I could do not to laugh. Ha, it wasn't long until the rest of the school filtered through though, and the whispers started...
The sneering, bitchy scrawls of the random sentences about the people around me – that stupid motherfucking man was staring at me again today, something I want from people who aren't old, foreign bus drivers with hair growing out of their noses. Like he's ever gonna get laid again anyway...
The random lyrics I'd noted down as the music spun through my mind – oh my womb it licks when you dig deep inside... The drawings I'd scribbled down, bloodshed, death, destruction.
My eyes darted to my father, to my mother, to the strangers whose faces were carefully wiped blank, just like mine and I could feel a storm rising in my mind, raging behind my eyelids.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck what's he gonna do what the fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck
I forced my lips to sneer, so what, is this some sort of intervention... you wanted to plead for my safety and you needed some back up or something...
I trail off, gesturing at the silent strangers invading my home, my life. My father stands, taking my book with him – get your hands off it prick – and opens his mouth.
His voice spills out, deep and grave and I can see in his eyes, see that he loves this, he's been trying to find a way to get me back under his thumb since I broke free, and now he's got it and his eyes reflect smugness at me and I just want to smack him and run, run, run.
No, he tells me, this isn't an intervention. Both I and Dr. Anderton, he says, feel you are too far gone for something like that to be of any use. No, I'm afraid you will be joining him and his consorts for a while, taking part in the program he recently designed, until he feels you are fit to be re-entered into society. You will be leaving tonight.
He stops as though that's it, as though nothing else needs explaining and I can hear my voice rising in answer, but it isn't connected to my brain, my body because I can feel the thick white fog of shock enveloping that, panic straining to push through.
What the hell, what the fuck are you talking about, what do you mean, you're just going to lock me away, what fucking good do you think that will do, what right do you have, what fucking reason, you bastard...
I stop, breathing harshly and I can feel the anger breaking through everything, overtaking and as I take a step forward, the thugs step forward too and I stop in shock, shit, they brought people to restrain me, fucking hell, what am I going to do, what...
Suddenly I realise the doctor is talking.
He tells me that his program is an intensive training course, designed to re-shape young individuals back into useful, law-abiding members of society. He says that I will undergo a severe detoxification period, where whatever drugs I may have in my system will be flushed out...
I find my voice and I spit at him, I'm not a druggie, but he just continues, smiling his stupid bland smile,
You refer several times in your diary to the use of cocaine, is all he says, and then he tells me that after the detoxification period, the program will include intensive therapy, behaviour modification and rigorous physical activity to bring my body back up to scratch after 'whatever abuse it may have sustained'. He pauses to see if I'll interrupt, but I don't have anything to say, and he continues
Your first few months will be in solitary confinement, he tells me, to ensure you don't break back into the cycle of the addiction you do appear to have. He says that they will also be dealing with my rage issues during that time.
Now, he finishes, if you will please go and pack your belongings we can be leaving in the hour – you will just need clothes and toiletries. No personal items are allowed – to begin with.
Silently I turn, savagely biting back the tears, and I barely notice the two men following me, making sure I don't run.
Questions, hate, anger, and yet more questions are swirling through my mind, making it hard for me to think clearly, to process what's happening, and the same question keeps breaking over me in waves, making my throat choke up and my eyes fill.
As I pack a suitcase that's already laid out on my bed, filling it with the freshly washed clothes my mother must have already prepared, the toiletries that she already placed in a bag for me, the bitch, it continues to surface, slowing me down, confusing me; I need to sit, I don't have time.
As I climb into the car, next to the old lady who tells me her name is Mary – how original – as I watch the streets slowly fade to countryside, it keeps hacking at me, pushing and pushing until finally I let it through, and now it won't stop, won't stop echoing in my mind like a dream gone wrong:
What the fuck is gonna happen to me?
A/N: The End. All lyrics (all two of them) were taken from Placebo and The Distillers, so they're not mine.
The layout idea of this, in case you're confused, was basically just that they were extracts from her life, little flashes of what was happening, interspersed with her thoughts on what she was doing, why she was doing it, etc.
So, each chapter is slightly random, and they're not in perfect order, and they don't really tell a story with a beginning and middle – just an end.
If there's enough response, I might think up an idea for a sequel???
So, please review. Thanks, B.