Taking Over

As I slowly regain consciousness, I become aware of the putrid smell of vomit. I struggle to my feet, trying to ignore the splitting headache, and the nausea and dizziness that accompanies it. I realize that I am in a dark, crowded room, but I have no recollection of how I got there.1

I only recognize one or two of the faces surrounding me, asleep on the floor. They're not my friends in any sense of the word; but they're the closest I've got, really. Not that I'd hang around with them if I had any other choice.2

As I step over the crowd of bodies, I wonder how my life came to be like this. I mean, sure, every teenager has her ups and downs, but I was once a straight-A student - to what? This?3

A guy on the ground cries out in his sleep. I judge him to be about 19 or 20, though he looks older. And, judging by the scars on his arms, alcohol isn't what rendered him unconscious tonight.4

I continue on my way, searching for the bathroom. On the way, I see two people who have fallen asleep in a compromising position under a table. Again, I wonder what I'm doing here. Why am I not at Amanda's house, having a girls' night? But I can answer that for myself. Because I alienated myself from my friends.5

About a year ago, I was a smart, funny, popular girl. But bit by bit, I spiralled into depression. I convinced myself that my friends hated me, and that I was worthless. I sought solace in the only way I could think of - drugs.6

And now what am I? Pathetic, that's what. I'm a washed-out fifteen-year-old girl standing in front of a bathroom mirror in a house she doesn't even remember, whose nose burns from doing lines of cocaine last night.7

I study my reflection carefully. My nose is red, from the coke. There are deep shadows under my eyes, like I haven't slept in weeks. I've lost heaps of weight. I pull off my sweatshirt to see how much - and see my arms. There are needle scars everywhere.8

I slump to the floor, and cry. I cry for all the friends I rejected, the only people who ever cared about me. I cry for all the people who tried to talk to me, and I just blew them off, or pushed them away. I cry for the people in that room, most of whom will never realize what they're doing to themselves. They'll never know that they're slowly, but surely, destroying their minds, bodies, and spirits. And lastly, I cry for myself, a normal teenage girl who let herself get swept away in the freedom of forgetting. Because that's all I ever wanted to do - forget.9

I wipe away my tears, take a deep breath, and square my shoulders. It's time for me to turn my life around. No more drugs, no more mid-week parties. Especially, no more of the group I've been hanging around with.10

It's time to change. Or rather, to change back.11

I take another deep breath, and pull out my cellphone. And slowly, very slowly, I dial a number from an almost-forgotten past.12

"Hello, Amanda? It's Brigitte."13