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Suicidal Love (part 4)
As I’m turning the dial I hear footsteps come up to me followed by the sound of Amber, the schools head cheerleader and most popular girl in school, “Hey Estella.”
“Hey Amber,” I say coldly.
“So,” she says, “New look? Finally trying to fit in?” I look down at what I’m wearing and see I’d made a big mistake in my rush this morning. Instead of my normal dark colored skinny jeans I grabbed a pair of bright purple ones that my dad had gotten me. Along with that I’d worn a pair of black stilettos (that explains why my feet hurt so badly) and a t-shirt that says, “I kissed a Vampire and I liked it”.
“I was in a rush this morning ok. I would never wear this if I was trying.” I defended.
“Hmm too bad you really could have been part of the popular crowd, and the cheer team the way you pull off that high pony tail,” she looks at my hand still trying to turn the dial and suddenly starts freaking out, “Oh my gosh what happened to your arm?!”
I look up at my arm and notice the sleeve sliding down, exposing the razor cuts. “They’re nothing!” I say pulling down my sleeve, “My cat scratched me.”
“Oh no those are razor cuts,” she yells, ‘You’re cutting yourself!”
“No I’m not!”
“Liar!” she yells and starts running towards the office. I can feel my eyes welling up, I can’t start going to see that stupid counselor again; she never understood what I was going through, she considered my complaints exaggerations because she was the cheer coach and thought all her little cheerleaders were perfect angels. I run to the bathroom and hide in one of the stalls, bawling my eyes out. I hear heels clicking on the tile floor and put my feet up on the seat so they can’t see me.
“Sweetie are you sure you saw her come in here?” says Ms. Patiyo, school consular.
“Yes Ms. P, the poor dear was crying a river,” Amber says.
“Come out Estella. Your dear friend Amber and I just want to help you.”
“Friend, ya right,” I mutter under my breath.
“I think she’s in this one,” Amber says as I see her high-heeled feet appear under the stall door.
“Sweetie come on out,” Ms. P says knocking on the door. I sigh and do as I’m told. “Now why don’t you come with me to my office so we can talk about what’s wrong,” she says. I follow silently seeing the smirk across Amber’s face.
When we reach Ms. P’s she tells me to sit in the chair in front of her desk and pull up my sleeves. I flinch as the fabric rubs against my cut skin. “Now honey,” she says sorting through her filing cabinet, “Hurting yourself is not a good way to express your pain. It only makes it worse.” I don’t say anything, just look down at the floor. “Sweetie I know that you’ve had problems in the past,” she says obviously referring to my attempted suicide, “And you know we’re only here to help but sweetie I don’t think we’re enough.”
“I’m not going to some stupid therapist,” I say getting upset.
“No that wouldn’t help. I think someone your own age, a peer counselor, will be just what you need. Come to room 123 after school.”
“Unless you would rather see a therapist.”
“No.” I sigh, “I’ll be there.”
I groan as the final bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. I walk slowly to room 123, wondering what person will be assigned to act like they actually care about my problem. I go inside and the teacher sends me to sit at the table in the back corner to wait for somebody to talk to. I can’t believe what I’ve gotten into when I see who was assigned to my problem.
“No way!” I say when Amber sits across from me.
“Something wrong freak?” she says smirking.
“There is no way in hell I’m going to talk to you about my problems,” I say getting up, “I’m out of here.”
“Mrs. Mont she won’t calm down,” Amber whines to the teacher.
“Estella please sit down,” Mrs. Mont says from her desk, “If you don’t cooperate I will be forced to assign you detention.”
“But…” I start.
“No buts, sit,” she orders. I do as I’m told and listen to Amber call me a freak for the next hour; as soon as I’m allowed to leave I bolt out of there. Having missed the late bus I walk home. After about a half hour of walking I’m finally home and I head straight for the computer, logging onto blackrose.com. As the page loads I start to cry thinking of the day’s events, why can’t I just have one good day? Suddenly my mood brightens when I see I have one new message.