stone cold sober, Prologue

Prologue

Fildon, March 1997
         Call me a pessimist, but in my fantasy land there’s no cotton candy. No sunshine and certainly no laughter. In a perfect world all I would wish for is the absence of fear.
         I wouldn’t be afraid to miss a plane, or a bus, or a train. I wouldn’t be afraid to fall asleep at night or during the day; of kites, elves, and carnivorous plants that move at the touch of a finger. In a place like that I wouldn’t break into a sweat at the thought of Quinn Bergen and of the expression on his face when I tell him that I’ve been crazy in love with him all my life.
         I wish I could tell you that I’m wearing a very short skirt to impress him, but that’s not the case. Tonight, I put on a tiny jean dress because I thought it would make me blend in, not stand out. See, I’m not like all the other fifteen-year-olds. They wear close to nothing and look cute, I get laughed at. They’re partying away in the auditorium of my school, whereas I sit alone three stories up on the floor of a restroom--just me, the smell of chlorine, and a factory new razor blade I used to slice my arm open. The music is a lot clearer now that I’ve stopped crying.
         I can’t understand the actual words but they’re playing a song I know. It’s about a rich girl asking some poor guy if she can hang out with him. This guy thinks she’s naïve and slumming and stuff, but I think that he has no right to make fun of her like that. I think Rich Girl just wants to get to know him; not because she has a ‘thirst for knowledge’ or because she wants to see cockroaches crawling up his wall, but because her life isn’t perfect at all. Maybe she just wants to be someone else, or maybe she’s just crazy about this guy, or both.
         I want the song to last, but it inevitably has to come to an end. What's worse than dying? Dying with crap music in the background. Make no mistake about it, I’m not blaming anyone for my miserable life nor do I blame myself; and like any normal person would, I feel ashamed of what I’ve done and of what it’s about to do to others. Whoever finds me will be scarred for life. My aunt will cry and blame herself. People will talk behind her back and I won’t even be there for her.
         I can feel tears falling from my eyelashes and snot running over my lips, but I no longer have the strength to wipe it away. I’m tired, in every respect. Do I feel panic at the thought of death? I did at first, but like my blood, that emotion has flowed out of me, leaving behind a sense of relief--

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