I'm Not Okay

I stared at the backs of my parents, my body beginning to tremble. I bit my lip, ignoring the pain and almost welcomed it. I clenched my fists tighter.1

Don't fucking cry.2

I blinked furiously, huffed loudly, and turned my head sharply when my father turned around.3

"Are you alright?" He questioned, his baritone voice layered with a concern that I did not want to hear.4

I smiled, unclenched my fists and evened my breathing. "I'm fine, dad." Everything is all fine and dandy. It's not like I don't want to be here. I really, really, want to be in this stupid -5

"Hurry up," it's my mother's voice that crushes my thoughts. She is a block of ice, seeming so solid and unrelenting. If only I could melt her.6

"I'm coming, mom." I snap in response. She glares and I can almost hear her thoughts, but she turns on her heels suddenly and beckons my father to follow her.7

How spineless, I note, following the pair dispassionately. No. I am so emotionless right now, so dead, so empty that I don't even care. I do not care. Nothing can harm me now; nothing can harm me when I'm so...dead on the inside.8

I become robotic, I notice, as I find myself seated in a chair beside my parents. I try to imagine how we must look like to other people, who hold their handkerchiefs to their chests and have tears down their faces. We don't bat an eyelash - my parents and I.9

My dad is sapped of emotion, brutally uncaring almost with his lack of sadness - similar to me. Next is my mother, her legs crossed and her arms folded, not daring to look at my father. Her face is fixated in a grim line, as if she is debating on whether to look disgruntled or to mimic the other people's faces.10

I glare, the negativity coming off of me in waves. Apart from my mouth, my face remains stoic and my eyes burn from either staring with intensity or something else. I just can't let my emotions take over me.11

The coffin is brown, possibly made of oak or cedar - some wonderful tree that I am allergic to. I squirm, my arms are crossed and I try to make myself smaller in my chair. The air is so thick and humid, as if rain is approaching - but there is not a cloud in the sky. The sky is crisp, blue, and sunny. The woman next to me is bawling.12

A reverend stands near the coffin, looking morose in posture, his eyes held down. Everyone is sad, I notice. Pathetic. I bite my lip and shut my eyes, wondering why there is a pressure building up in my chest that makes me want to scream. Even my eyes are beginning to smart, as tears well up in my eyes.13

"We will all miss Wes," a woman's voice shook slightly, but she gripped her husband's sleeve for support. She was middle-aged and now showing it well, when she grimaced as if in pain. 14

I grip the sides of my chair. What does that stupid woman know about pain?15

"He was my beautiful baby boy," the woman continued, strength was beginning to grow. Somehow it made me want to recoil. Why was she getting stronger? I bothered me, why couldn't she be more miserable?16

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The husband held her in a half-embrace, staring forlornly at the picture of their late teenage son beside them.17

"He was going to Duke on a football scholarship." My lips begin to bleed slightly, and I find myself wishing desperately to cry.18

"It was...my fault," her voice cracked and her blue eyes glistened with tears. It is suddenly like a horror movie, and no matter how much the air is compacting inside of my lungs, I can't turn away and I can't breathe. "I should have kept Wes home! He would have never been by that creek! He would have never been hit by that train!" 19

Her words molded together, but everyone seemed to be on the same frequencies. More people began to tremble, tears ran down their cheeks, and all the black-clothed people around me were beginning to get to me.20

"Where are you going?" The voice was stiff and as frigid as ever, my mother's dark eyes seemed to wish me death right on the spot.21

I wanted to die, so it was all fine with me if she agreed.22

"I'm going home," I answered in a clipped tone. I glared at her, feeling eyes on me. I had to stop my movement, I had to turn and face the mother. My body was shaking again and traitorous tears were springing from my eyes, and I was unable to see.23

"So what if your stupid son died!" I screamed, my mind became unbound from my body. My voice cracked, but I still kept screaming. "He's lucky that he died! Do you people not know anything?"24

It was silent, but all I heard was water - as if someone had submerged my head into a lake or something. I whirled around, not even sure who I was facing and not caring. "It's not fair that, that bastard died! I wanted to die! I want to die! It's not fair!"25

I screeched again, the adrenaline pumped through my veins and controlled me like a puppet. "Why do you even care about him? It's not fair that no one will...ever care about me." I couldn't breathe, my throat locked up, and my eyesight was distorted by saline.26

"I want to die so bad..." My nails were in my scalp and my knees were beginning to bend. "That stupid boy Wes, he didn't even want to die! Why can't I just get this one thing? Why? Why can't I die?"27

Arms embraced me and I fought them off, kicking and snarling like a beast. I was chained up by my emotions again, and I hissed at all the people the same words: "You stupid people wouldn't care if I died!"28

And then I ran, to the point in which I felt as if I were flying away. My feet barely touched the ground, my breaths were labored, and my heart ricocheted about in my chest. Battery acid replaced the blood in me. Tears kept me from seeing, and the thoughts - the searing memory of the hospital flooded back so vividly, that I was not sure if I was running in the middle of the sterilized white walls of the hospital or through the parking lot.29

I could have died. I slipped, sending my knees straight into the asphalt. I groaned, but I welcomed the inflamed skin and the gravel protruding from my skin. As I saw the blood peek through the folds of my skin, I smiled, realizing that I too could die.30

No matter how many people tried to stop me.31

I stared at my surroundings, not daring to look behind me. My parents are probably coming. They will tell me that I have no reason to want to die, and I can agree, I suppose. Nothing they can do will change my mind, however.32

I stand up, feeling the fresh wounds open wider. It sends chills of ecstasy up my spine. If I don't have anything to overdose on, I can always resort to much more...brutal methods.33

The gravel is too small. I feel a part of me breaking, and I hold myself together, to prevent from screaming. I need control again, so I fix my face into a mask of nothingness.34

A red pick up truck pulls up, and a man of about fifty years, with whiskers on his face and creases in his brow, speaks to me. "Need a ride?" He looks similar to a teacher I have seen at my high school, adorned in t-shirt and possibly blue jeans.35

I hear voices yelling my name behind me. I do not hesitate. I nod and climb into the vehicle from the other side. As soon as the car revs into motion, I let a smile appear on my mask and I find myself almost hoping - begging - for this man to be some type of serial killer.36

My eyes try to make eye contact with his through the mirror.37

Kill me, please.38

"What's a pretty girl like you hitch hiking?"39

Pretty, I almost snort, hardly. "I'm looking for an escape," I reply vaguely, not mentioning to add the word 'life' for effect.40

"It's a bit reckless, I have to say." He answered, keeping his eyes on the road. The car lurched when it reached the red light.41

"Maybe I'm a bit self-destructive," I answer, knowing all too well. How many times had I overdosed? How many times had I cut myself? Who else was it that made her birthday a ritual to harm herself in some fashion, like by engraving lines in her skin?42

"Aren't all teenagers," he joked. He seemed unaware of the darkness seeping off of me in fumes, so I glared at him.43

"It varies in some degree," I answered. Dumb ass.44

"True, true." He suddenly eyed me carefully before questioning, "Where am I taking you?"45

Hopefully off a cliff, but I keep my mouth shut. I feel my eyes welling up with tears and I realize it is another reason why I hate myself. I halt the thoughts, so familiar yet so dangerous. "Can you drive me to a...Wal-Mart?"46

He raises a brow. "Alright, whatever you say."47

If only society agreed with you, those doctors would have let me die. I glance out the window, wondering what I was to do. I could not legally buy a gun. That meant I couldn't blow my brains out. I could not drive, so plunging off a cliff was not happening. The fact that this is Florida also dampened my mood; there are no cliffs.48

Razors were primitive somehow. I hated how their blades would hook onto my skin and tug it off, and then become clogged. The cuts were always jagged and messy. Scissors were too blunt, especially the pair I had reserved for myself in my bedroom. Glass was perfect; it cut the skin smoothly, leaving just a thick, oozing line of red in its absence. It cut deep and relentless, without bombarding my head with pain signals.49

I did not have time to ponder on my preference of self-mutilating objects or how much I really would not mind somehow slitting my throat, because a car sped in our direction. It was a car speeding head-on, but leaning to the side of the car in which the older man was sitting.50

I knew I was not going to die, even as the man who was giving me a ride tried to swerve out of the way. The impact was...intense, to say the least. The bumpers smashed, my back snapped, and I was thrown forward - with a meager seatbelt holding me back. Glass shattered everywhere, impaling me. No one screamed, but the tires shrieked on impact and the metal seemed to thunder. My neck broke apart from my spine and my eyes were shut; once again I was disconnected, maybe from life, as I felt the cool blood running down my body.51

I did not dare to open my eyes. Something was lodged in my throat, but I kept my tears in. I heard a foreign voice begin to yell, asking if we were all right.52

No, I wanted to answer. I did not die.53