The Picture

What have I done? How could I be so stupid? I’ve ruined my life! There is no way I will be able to redeem myself after this!

My cheeks, red with fear and humiliation, burn, only to be doused with the steady stream of tears running down my face. I know I won’t be able to hide here for much longer; someone is bound to walk in here, and hear me, in the last stall, crying harder than I ever have in my life.

Out of nowhere, I reach a decision. I am going to walk out, fix myself up in the mirror, and go into the hallway. I am going to look into the eyes of everyone that knows what happened and those that will know soon, and I am going to show them that they cannot bother me.

But as I walk out, make-up fixed, hair tied back, I see him. The one that did this to me, all with the push of a button. The one that betrayed me and lied to me and broke his promises in less than a second. I try to get by without being noticed by him, but he sees me anyway. He shoots me a smirk, flying right through me, piercing any bit of dignity I had left in my veins.

As much as I want to turn around, back into the stall, maybe hide until everyone else has graduated, so no one that remains will know, I know that I must continue on. I walk past him, avoiding his eyes, staring only at what is in front of me, only what I have to see. I refuse to look to my left, at two guys whistling at me, shouting “Take it off!” I will not look to my right, at girls giggling and calling me a s***. As long as I don’t see it, I can pretend it isn’t there.

I’m wearing a baggy sweatshirt today. My jeans have tears in the knees, and my shoes are old and worn. When I walk in my next class, I grab the seat closest to the door, so that at the end I may make a fast getaway. But I did not take into consideration the straggling kids walking in after I am seated, each one giving me a different look, girls shooting looks of disgust, guys flashing toothy grins. Casey DeMarco even bends over and whispers “You know, you would look a lot better of those clothes were on the floor instead of on you.” I cringe away, and I look down. I can’t bring myself to see all of them look at me like that anymore.

“Caylee, eyes up front,” the teacher calls. I snap my head up to look at her, always obedient to a teacher. As I look into her eyes, I see that her face is twisted in a mix of disgust and disappointment. I know at once that she is aware of what happened earlier today.

“No, Alex, I don’t want to do this anymore! It’s over!”

He looked at me with a sense of anger. Then, his face twisted into a menacing grin. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his phone, waving it in my face.

Oh, my, God. OH MY GOD! My head screamed as I realized what he was about to do. The picture, the picture, I should never have sent him that picture. I should never have taken that picture. But I was stupid, and I was in love, and I trusted him. And now look where I am now.

I tried to grab his phone, to delete the picture, but he was too strong for me. He pushed me away, but gave me enough time to look back at him before he hit send.

A million things happened at once. Millions of sounds are heard, all indicating one thing. A new text. A new picture. Of me. Laughter filled the cafeteria, along with screams of disgust.

I ran. There was nothing else I could do. I just ran. Blindly at first, no motive in my head but to get away. Then I decided that I had to hide myself. Hide myself from the ridicule, the laughter, and the stares. Almost knocking the bathroom door down at the speed I was going, I locked myself in the last stall, pulling my knees to my chest, and cried.

Somehow, some way, I get through the rest of the day. Afraid to get on the bus, where the talk is already always gossip, and hearing more about me and that picture, I walk home instead. It’s sunny out, totally different from my current outlook on life. As far as I’m concerned, life is not at all worth living.

I get home. Using the key I was issued on my first day of high school, three years ago, I let myself in. Usually I would turn on the lamp, adding light to the sunless room, but today I leave it dark. Not that it makes me feel any better.

Curling up on the couch, I continue with my sobbing. Feelings of despair and having nothing to live for fill up inside of me, until I cannot hold in anymore, and it begins to flow out, making my sobs twice as fast and twice as loud, something I did not think possible.

I don’t know how much time was passing. But I did know that when my parents came home I could not look like this. I had to straighten up, had to look like everything was okay, when in reality my whole world was falling apart.

By the time they walk in the door, I’m sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, reading a book. Nothing out of the ordinary. I make sure the story I picked has a particularly sad plot, so that I can blame any tears on the woes of the characters. This is a believable lie, as when I read I am taken in by the story, becoming part of that world instead of my own. Although, this time, I cannot lose myself in the story. I cannot forget all that has happened; cannot trade it for a different world. I am trapped in it, trapped in my own reality, without a way to get out.

I barely taste my food that night, not able to even tell what I am putting in my mouth. I haven’t much of an appetite, which of course cannot go unnoticed.
“What’s wrong, Caylee? You seem distraught,” my mother says, looking at me with concerned eyes.
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” I lie, staring right back at her, but not really seeing her. “What could possibly be wrong?”
“Alright, just checking,” she replies, buying my lie with ease.
I leave soon after, not being able to bear being in the company of the only two people left that do not think I am some kind of prostitute. I can’t imagine they can go much longer without finding out.
Later that night. I am attempting to fall asleep, to escape the pain and suffering of reality, but it is not going over well. Thoughts and fears and despair races about my mind, not allowing me to relax. I look out the window, into the night. When I was younger, the shadows made by the trees would scare me senseless, but I had since outgrown that fear. Now I would give anything to have just that to worry about, a fictional monster in the night.
But I have even worse fears now. Instead of fearing the night, I fear the day. At night, I can be alone, and safe. But in the day, I am vulnerable to the stares and the laughs. I cannot bring myself to think about where the picture could have gotten by now. Though I did not look, I am sure it is online, out for each and every person on this planet to see.
The picture, the picture that I didn’t even want to take, screamed after I sent it, only comforted by the fact that there was only one person that would ever know of its existence. He assured me that it would not be seen by any of his friends, that I could trust him.
And I did. I did trust him. I trusted him with everything I had, believing so much in what I thought we had. I wanted so much to believe in him, in us, that I did not stop once to consider the consequences of what would happen if we ever fell out of place. Which is exactly what happened.
It was after the picture was sent that he changed. He used to be so kind, so good to me. But then he started to demand more and more, and I couldn’t keep up with his orders. I tried, tried with every fiber of my being to keep us together, but it became too much. I ended it, trying with one last ditch effort to save myself. Of course, only after the fact did I realize the power he had with the picture, and the lack of a conscience that would have stopped him.
I open my eyes, and with I pang in my chest I realize that morning has come. I shut my eyes tightly, and wish that it was only a bad dream, that I was going to go to school and everything was back to normal. I open my eyes. Nothing has changed.
Forcing myself out of bed, I open my closet. Picking out my biggest clothes, not wanting to give anyone any extra incentive to comment on me or the picture, I get dressed. Giving myself a once-over in the mirror, I decide that, at least, I look the part of a totally normal high school student.
I set out early, not wanting to be seen, or to have to take the bus. The neighborhood is quiet this early in the morning, the only sounds coming from birds chirping up in the treetops. I wouldn’t mind being a bird. I could live my days up in the tree, flying away fast at the slightest notion of danger, never having to return.
People can’t do that. People can’t choose to come and go at will. People have routines, schedules that they have to follow. When something happens, they can’t just run away. They have to go on, no matter how bad it is.
I dread reaching the school. The building which I once loved has now turned into my own personal hell. I don’t want to walk through the front doors. I don’t want to make my way to my locker, then to my first class. I don’t want to see the faces of the people that once liked me, and now hated me.
But I do walk through the doors. I do make my way to my locker, then to my first class. I do see the faces of the people that once liked me and now hated me. If they weren’t all looking in my direction, maybe I could pretend they were laughing at something, anything else. But they are looking in my direction, and it’s easy to tell what they are talking about, even though I cannot hear them.
Is it really only an eight hour day? It feels like I’ve been here an eternity. As the final bell rings, my eyes widen in disbelief that the day has finally ended. Not stopping for anyone, I make a dash for the exit.
Then I see him. He looks at me, a cocky grin on his face. He is surrounded by his friends; he knows he will be backed up no matter what he does. And he also knows that I have no strength to fight him.
“So you decided to wear clothes today, Caylee?” he asks, feeding off of the roaring laughter from his friends.
I do not respond, not wanting to provoke him any further, or give him any openings. If I were to speak, I would have to choose my words very carefully. I continue walking, hoping to get around them, but they block my way.
“Aw, come on, Caylee, don’t be like that, stick around, we could use a show.”
“Leave me alone, Alex,” I say through closed teeth.
“Maybe you just need some help,” he says as he grabs me. Two of his friends step in to hold down my arms, holding me down as they pull my sweatshirt off me. I try to kick at them, but they get my legs, not allowing me to move them at all.
Alex grabs at my shirt, and my heart stops when I hear it tear at my sleeve. Only a thread is keeping it wrapped around me. I scream, calling for someone, anyone to help me.
I get the attention of a teacher. When he comes into view, they all let go of me, letting me fall to the floor. Panting, I look up at him in relief. Instructing me to stay there, he leads them all away.
I don’t know how long it took him to come back, but he did. He helped me up, handing me my jacket, which had been thrown across the hallway. Suddenly cold, despite the warm weather, I clutch it around me.
“What happened?” he asks me.
“I walked by, and then Alex grabbed me and his friends held me down, pulling off my jacket and trying to rip off my shirt.” As I speak, tears begin to fall slowly down my cheeks.
“It’s alright,” he says. “You don’t have to cry, they aren’t going to be around to hurt you anymore. They’ll be suspended for harassing another student.”
For the first time since he sent the picture, I smile. It’s over, I don’t have to worry anymore, he won’t be around to hurt me anymore, I –
No, I realize, it’s not over. I can never rebuild what I once had. Everyone else saw the picture. Everyone else is still here. They will never forget what they saw.
“It’s never going to end,” I whispered so low that only I could hear. “It’s never going to end.”
After convincing the people at the main office that I was alright, I was allowed to go home. Walking again, I am able to give myself some time to try to relax. But as hard as I try to clear my head, I can’t help but think about how I am stuck, with no way out.
With each passing day, time gets slower and slower. I have no will to go on, no incentive to keep living like this. I cannot think of any reason to.
On Thursday night I make a decision. There is no reason to keep going on, so I will not. I can’t bear my new reputation, and I can’t rebuild my old one. There is only one thing that I can do. The one thing that will stop people from talking about the picture, erase it completely from their minds. I have to do something even more drastic, something even more permanent.
Instead of writing my history report, I write a letter. Addressed to everyone that saw the picture, and everyone that would be seeing it soon.
By now, you all probably know about the picture, and to the few of you that don’t, I’m sure you will soon, especially after this. I can’t live after something like that. I can’t listen to everyone at school making comments about how easy I am, and I can’t bear the disappointed looks I get from everyone about how I could be so stupid. Even though Alex is gone, and he’s not around to bother me anymore, he’s not the only one at fault.
I blame myself for this. I was stupid enough to take that picture, even though every alarm in my head told me not to, that it was a terrible idea. But Alex promised me that he wouldn’t show anyone, and that if I did this, we would be together forever. And that’s what I wanted.
After I took the picture, I wanted to delete it. I almost did. But I didn’t. I sent it. I made sure it was going to Alex, no one else, because I knew what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands. He told me he got it, and not to worry, that he would keep it to himself. But he lied. He did send the picture, after it became apparent that I was no longer of use to him.
I am humiliated. I made an awful mistake, and I am humiliated. I know that I cannot make it better. I can either live with my actions, or I can cease living. I believe that I am making it apparent what my choice is.
I am sorry. I am sorry for the people that I will hurt by doing this. I am sorry for myself, as I am the true person to blame for this outcome. Although it was the mass production of the picture that has brought my downfall, I was the one that took it in the first place, so I am the true one to blame.
In the end, I suppose it does not matter who caused it, what only matters is what happens in the end. And I think it is pretty clear what the end will be for me. Goodbye.
Caylee A. Hartford
My letter finished, I print it out, read it over once, and place it on the dining room table, where it will be easily spotted. Taking one last look about the room, I start my ascent upstairs. Into the bathroom I go, opening the door to the medicine cabinet. Inside, I find the pills, the pills that, if taken in an overdose, can prove to be fatal. It will work in my favor now.
Opening the bottle with ease, I try to count how many there are. Deciding that there are plenty to serve a purpose such as this one, I pour a few out into my hand.
I don’t know what, and I don’t know why, but for some reason I cannot bring my hand to my mouth. I stand there, frozen, staring at the pills. My mind is completely blank, and I hear no sound. My vision is becoming blurry, and I feel limp. My hand rests, palm up, on the counter, my head hanging low.
I don’t know how long I have been standing here. It must have been a while, because the sky is now dark. It may have been my imagination, but I think I hear my mother walking in the door. I think the scream is real, but I cannot be sure. What I am now positive of is her grabbing me, throwing the pills out of my hand.
“Caylee, Caylee, speak Caylee, please! Did you take any of those pills?”
I want to speak. I want to tell her no, that I didn’t take any yet. But I can’t find my voice. All I can do for now is shake my head.
“We’re going to help you, Caylee, I promise,” she says, hugging me now. “Don’t kill yourself, Caylee, there’s another way.”
Suddenly, I can move. With my now usable arms, I throw myself around her. I begin to cry, loud, ugly sounding sobs filling the room. Some are hers, but most of them belong to me. We stay in this position, hugging and crying as one, until neither of us has any more energy. She leads me to my room, with instructions to lie in bed and not get up. She walks out.
I can hear her pressing numbers on the phone. She is calling my school, I realize.
“What kind of school are you running? How dare you allow my daughter to be treated this way? Do you know I came home to find her trying to poison herself?” She yells furiously to the person on the other end. I immediately feel sorry for them, whoever they may be.
I hear her cursing into the phone, something she never does. I know for sure now that she is angry, angrier than I’ve ever seen her. I feel bad that I have done this to her. She doesn’t deserve to go through this too. She didn’t even know about the picture until now.
After hearing her slam down the phone in a fit of rage, she walks back in my room, attempting to look calm.
“Caylee, please talk to me. Tell me what happened. I’m not mad at you, I promise.”
I am reluctant to open my mouth, to fill her in on all the gruesome details. I’m not really even sure where to start, and I tell her that.
“Just start at the beginning. Start when you took the picture.”
I didn’t realize she wanted me to go that far back, but I respected her wish, and I begin.
“A few months ago, I was going out with a guy named Alex. He was very good to me, and very kind. But then he asked me for that picture. I told him I wasn’t comfortable, and I didn’t want anyone else to see it. He told me that the picture would prove that I trusted him, something he needed constant reassurance of. So I took the picture, and I sent it to him.”
I speak quickly, rambling on and on.
“After he got the picture, everything changed. He became mean and demanding, and he ordered me around a lot. So I broke up with him, and he got mad, then he remembered the picture, and he sent it to everyone. Now everyone in school has seen it, and they always laugh or stare when I walk by, and I just can’t take it anymore!”
At first, she says nothing. She just reaches out and hugs me tightly. For a woman who was cursing out someone at the school not five minutes ago, she is very calm now.
“I know you realize you shouldn’t have taken the picture,” she begins, “but you can’t blame yourself completely. You didn’t know that he was going to change, and you couldn’t have known he would send it out like that.”
“But I’m still the one that took it in the first place!” I say, still fully blaming myself.
“Caylee, don’t do this to yourself. You don’t have to take the full blame here,” she replies, trying to hard to comfort me.
We continue to talk for a while, but it does nothing to help. No matter what is said, I know that when I go to school everything will be the same. I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t think I can.
“Go to sleep now, we’ll talk more in the morning,” she tells me, standing up to leave. She walks away, turning off the light on her way out.
Exhausted from crying so hard and the accumulated stress, I fall asleep.
It’s morning again. The sun is shining in, lighting up my room. I sit up, pushing my hair back and smoothing it down. I stand up, and begin to get dressed. I let my hair stay down today, too lazy to put it up. I walk downstairs, shocked to find my mother sitting at the dining room table.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” I ask, beginning to wonder just how early it was.
“I took off today to stay with you.”
“But I have to go to school,” I inform her, confused.
“No, I’m not going to have you go today. We’re going to take a little trip.”
“Where?” I ask with some apprehension.
“Caylee, you’re going to see a psychiatrist. She’s going to help you sort through everything.”
“Why?”
“Because the school wants you to go because you tried to harm yourself, and frankly I think you should go too.”
I do not totally disagree with her. And I don’t want to go to school. And maybe a psychiatrist could help me out.
“Alright,” I say finally, “I will go.”
I am silent in the office. I’m not really sure what to say. I let her talk, and answer her questions as vaguely as possible. She asks about Alex, and how I felt when we were together before the picture was taken. I tell her how kind he was and how much I loved him, but after he got the picture he became so mean. She asks me how that made me feel, and I say I felt awful, and I just wanted things to go back the way they were, and when I knew they wouldn’t, I broke up with him, so he sent out the picture.
“Do you think he just wanted that picture to control you?” she asks, gently prodding me to say more and more.
“Yes,” I say, realizing that she is correct. “That’s all he wanted it for. It wasn’t a proof of my trust; it was his ticket to own me.”
She doesn’t say anything now; instead she lets me think about this new epiphany. I wonder why I did not realize this before, but I decide that it didn’t really matter.
We talk for a few more minutes, and then she tells me that our time is up for today. She tells me how strong I am, and that I can get through this. I smile at her, my way of telling her that I agree.
I lie. I don’t agree. No matter what happens here, no matter how much I grow from this, the picture will still be out there. And I can’t do anything about that.
Monday morning. By my own choice, I go to school. Even with all that’s happened, I still want to keep up with my lessons. So I walk in, after taking the bus for the first time since the picture was sent out. Surprisingly, I had not been called out once by anyone. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all died down.
I walk through the halls, growing more and more confident with each step. No one gives me a second glance. It’s as if it’s all been forgotten. Or they just heard about Alex and don’t want the same fate. Either way, I am happy.
I walk into class, actually smiling now. I sit at my usual seat, placing my books on my desk. Someone hands me a piece of paper, and I place that on my desk too, without giving it a second glance.
I still believe everything is alright until I hear the giggling. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I know that the paper on my desk isn’t a sheet of math formulas. I bring myself to look at it, even though I already know what is there. Me. In the picture.
I run. I leave my books at my desk, and I run. Back to the bathroom, where I started, a full week ago. Back to the same stall, back into the same position, hugging my knees to my chest.
I will never be able to redeem my reputation. I will never be able to get over this. I had known it before, but I chose to pretend it wasn’t so. But I can’t do that anymore. I made a choice. But then I was stopped. So now I have to go with the other option. Live with the hand I dealt myself.
I go to the nurse instead of back to class. I tell her I have stomach cramps, hoping that she will let me lay down for a while. Thankfully, she does.
I lie very still on the cheap cot-like bed. The sheets make noise with even the slightest movement, and I am still hoping that if I don’t move for a long time, no one will even notice I’m there. I know it doesn’t work that way, but I can’t stop myself from hoping.
The nurse lets me stay until the end of first period. Then, she tells me that I can either go home or go back to class. Knowing I can’t make a habit of skipping school, I go back to class.
The laughter is back. The stares are back. I get a sickening feeling when I realize that they must have all known, and wanted to see my face. A new picture of me. At least in this one I’m covered. Still, it’s just as bad.
I have gym today. I have to get changed. My locker is in the corner, so I’m not well-seen anyway, but today my position is not enough to cover me. Ashley Hastings comes over to me. I already know the nature of her next words. I try to ignore her, but Ashley Hastings is not the kind of person you can get away from.
“Caylee, shouldn’t you be in the boys’ locker room, showing yourself off? I’m sure they would be glad to have you, they’re always looking for a show.”
“Leave me alone, Ashley,” I say, trying to focus on tying my sneakers. She does not leave.
“What’s the matter? Surely you don’t mind giving a second look. It’s nothing they haven’t seen already anyway.”
Surrounding girls that are close enough to hear this encounter begin to snicker.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, giving her a death glare. She steps back.
“You know what? I don’t want to be near someone like you. I don’t want to become a slut like you.”
She turns, and, along with all the other girls, walks away. I wait until they are gone before walking out into the gym.
A month ago, I would have been glad to have this kind of attention. I would have been psyched to be the talk of the whole school, assuming that it would be for something good. And besides, back then I believed that any publicity was good publicity. I know now that that’s the worst lie ever told. Even worse then when Alex told me he loved me and that I could trust him.
I don’t go to the cafeteria for lunch. I don’t have an appetite, and I don’t want to be in the same room as chaotic teenagers with a picture of me. So, I spend my forty minutes in the bathroom again, practicing deep breathing exercises and trying to convince myself that everything will be okay, even if I don’t believe it to be so.
I only have two classes this afternoon, but it might as well be two thousand. I don’t know how I am going to get through this. I suppose that it will be much like this morning. Whispers and laughs and looks.
Final bell. Thank God. I can go home. Ignoring the existence of everyone else, I walk out of the school building. I decide not to take the bus again. I can think of no reason to put myself through that kind of torture.

I am not alive. I am breathing, and I can function like a human being, so I am physically living, but I am not alive. I am brain-dead. I am merely going through motions, not really getting a feel for anything. I can do nothing but follow the same routine, the one that has been etched in my brain, allowing me to do it without a second thought.
My mother walks in the door. She gives me a hopeful look, but my blank stare gives no room for doubt. It wasn’t getting any better.
“What happened today?” she asks, looking at me helplessly.
“In first period someone handed the picture out to the whole class,” I tell her, trying not to cry. I fear that if I cry too much, I will lose too much water, and become dehydrated. I don’t want to have to worry about that too. I have too much to deal with already.
I skip dinner. I don’t think I can hold down any food. I go straight to bed, even though it is only eight o’clock. I don’t have a reason to stay awake, anyhow.
I fall asleep quickly, despite what time it is. I find myself in school. I realize that I am dreaming, something I don’t normally do. So, I take this unique opportunity to enjoy my life a little bit, like it’s normal again.
No one looks at me twice. No snickers as I walk by. I see Alex in the hallway, and he waves and smiles. I grin back. Here, I am still with him.
“Hey Cay,” he says, placing a peck on my cheek.
“Hello,” I reply, still smiling.
“Listen, Cay, I’m sorry before about the picture. If you don’t want to take it, then I won’t pressure you.”
“Thanks, Alex, that means a lot.”
I didn’t take the picture. No one ever saw it. It doesn’t even exist! I love this dream.
Alex puts his arm around me, something he always used to do. When I wake up, I can still smell his cologne on me. Which just makes the crashing of reality hurt that much more.
I did take the picture. I did send it. Everyone did see it. I can’t change that, no matter how much I want to. I briefly contemplate trying to poison myself again, but I decide against it, assuming that I would probably get caught before I could finish the act, or I would freeze up again.
I go to school, making the same empty promise to myself that I had every other day. Today everything will be easier. Today everyone will leave you alone, the picture forgotten. Today, I can go back to normal.
I don’t know why I am lying to myself. I don’t believe it, and even my own voice trying to reassure myself sounds hollow.
What I find most ironic is I don’t even care that everyone saw me in the picture. What I care about is the big deal they’re all making out of it. Never, in my entire life, had I ever seen teenagers talking about the same thing for more than an hour. This has lasted over a week.
I walk into school, expecting the worst, especially after what happened the morning before. I look down, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye. I hear footsteps all around me, not surprising, as there is not much time for students to maneuver through the crowded hallways to their classes. Still, I cannot help but be paranoid that each step is bringing everyone closer to me, surrounding me, creating a trap of teenagers.
I walk quickly, hoping to outrun anyone that may try to attack me. But as I walk farther and farther through the school building, I realize that no one is giving me a second glance. I am reluctant to be happy about this, as this was the very same beginning that yesterday held in store for me. Still, I suppose it is better than being called out and attacked.
I go into my first period class. I look for the kid that handed out copies of the picture yesterday, but he is not in sight. I assume he was suspended, just like my ex. Perhaps this is the reason I am not being bothered today.
First and second period go by. The count for how many times the subject of the picture had been brought up is still at zero, a stunning record since the beginning of the end.
The morning has passed. Still nothing. I briefly contemplate if it is possible that I am still dreaming. But Alex is still gone, so I suppose that that is not the case. I realize that I shouldn’t question it, just take the good luck, but I cannot help my extreme curiosity.
I actually sit in the cafeteria during lunch, something I haven’t done in over a week. It still looks the same as it had since I was a freshman, with peeling paint and the smells of burnt food, but I don’t mind its tactless appearance. Sure beats being huddled up in a bathroom stall for forty minutes.
Afternoon classes. Still nothing. Perhaps it is finally over. Perhaps it has finally died down. When the final bell rings, I check my watch and my phone before I believe that it is really the end of the day. I am psyched to go home, ecstatic about my uneventful day.
My mother walks in. She sees me smiling, and breaks out into a wide-toothed grin.
“Nothing out of the ordinary today, I hope?” she asks, looking at me hopefully.
“No! Absolutely nothing! And I couldn’t be happier!” I say, jumping up and down like a small child on Christmas. “I think it’s finally over!”
She hugs me, taking me in her arms, holding me tightly. I return the favor, still smiling form ear to ear.
To have one day where everything is normal, just one day, had been my one wish. Then, to have another day, where life is even more uneventful, well, I cannot think of anything better. Then, to have a third day, and a fourth! Did I actually kill myself? Am I in heaven? I let out laughter of joy when I realize that no, I did not kill myself, I am very much alive.
Eleven days ago, I had a shouting match with my boyfriend. Then, I dumped him, and he sent out a picture, meant to ruin my life and torture me to no end. And I was tortured. I had no one to turn to, no one to help me. I had to see a psychiatrist, and people were suspended. But then, things got better. People got bored with only picking on me, and so they stopped.
I was not alive. I was living, I was breathing, but I was not alive. Nor did I want to be. That changed. I can live now. I can truthfully say that I am alive again. Which is more than enough for me.





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