“Oh, shoot. I cut myself,” I looked down at my finger. It was swelling with beads of blood already, “Oh, well. It doesn't hurt that much. In fact, it feels kind of good.”
My friend, Margot, stared at me, “That is a gash, Callie. From a butcher knife. The knife hit bone. What do you mean, it doesn't hurt that much?”
“It just doesn't. It actually is just a release of energy from everything I've been holding back. You, of all people, should know that.” I looked at her with my tired, angry eyes.
“What happened to you? Ever since your...parents, you know, divorced, you haven't been the same. First the vacant look in your eyes, then incessant anger, then black clothes, dark eyeliner and black lipstick. What now? Going and cutting yourself?” Margot pulled back, disgusted by my changes. I glanced up. She was standing, watching me with a look of disbelief glued on her face. I sighed.
“Margot. This is me. This is my true self. I plan to stay this way. I am.... just leave. I need my alone time.” I turned away, making it clear that the conversation was over. At least for me, it was. Margot did not do anything to do what I said. She tensed, ready to reason with me. Or try to.
“So this is your plan of recovery. How you're going to make it all better. By becoming a virtual zombie. By dying like a flower without water. I can't let you do that. I just can't.”
“Yes, you can. You can cut me out of your life. It's easier than you think. Just block me out everywhere. I am no longer the friend you knew before, Margot.”
“No, you're not, Callie. You are definitely not. But can't you remember the times we used to have? I've known you since the third grade. We are seventeen now.” Margot protested.
“Yes, and what are those times to me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have a new life, and I don't see you anywhere in it.” I was pissed. Didn't she know I didn't want anything to do with her?
“Well. I guess you want to destroy yourself because of a few things gone wrong in your life. You can screw up. I mean, really. What do I care?” Margot glared and stalked out of the room.
I was shaken for a moment, and tried to let it go. She wanted me to follow her, so I did the exact opposite. I stayed where I was, mulling over the conversation. I had changed, no matter what I tried to do. Even though it was Margot who made me realize it, I had realized it. I was not the bubbly, cheerful person I had once been. I was dark, and hateful of life, hateful of everything.
Over the next six months or so, I sunk deeper and deeper into my depression. I became more moody. I yelled at everybody. One girl was now paralyzed because of my temper rages and my "incessant anger," which was exactly what Margot had told me. My grades slipped from straight As to failing every subject. Fights were now a common thing for me. I dropped out of school, not caring whether or not my damn parents were worried.
After the incident with Margot, I took to cutting. Like I had said a while back, it was a release from my feelings. However temporary each break was, it bought me enough time to think through my problems, and make a decision that I, in my drugged haze, thought was the best for me. Most of these decisions dug me deeper into the hellhole I was going to have to get myself out of eventually.
I started to drug myself regularly, taking in more and more toxins to make myself high. I used needles, not caring or having a clue whether they were clean or not. Alcohol was my new best friend. With each passing week, I visited them more and more until it was a daily occurence. I ran myself bankrupt trying to keep up with the payments to the drug dealer. I was fired from my job within a month or two of the fight with Margot.
Eventually I ran away from home, living in various shelters every week. I stole food, clothes, and cash when I needed them. I was almost caught by the police once or twice, but managed to escape. I was miserable. No friends, no home, no money. I had nothing. I didn't even think about college, or going back home. Those two were not options for me at all.
After two or three years of homelessness and stupidity had passed, she saw me in a dirty alley, smoking marijuana with a group I had picked up on the streets. I was high, and I was loving it in all my drunken and drugged glory. I hated it too, because it was what tied me to life; and I hated life.
“Callie?” Margot whispered, stepping towards me carefully over the remains of the bed I had made myself the previous night, since I couldn't find a shelter to sleep in. She was in shock at the sight of me, what with me not having taken a shower since I ran away; time passed without my realizing exactly how much. My face was smudged with dirt, and cigarette cinders. My clothes were in tatters. In short, I was a total mess.
“Yeah? Who the hell are you?” My voice was slurred, and smelled of alcohol. I laughed like the worthless addict I was.
“It's me, Margot. Remember that fight we had three and a half years ago? I know it may be a difficult subject to bring up, but I have got to get you out of here. Sling your arm around my neck,” She eased me up, and helped me away from the alley, “I'm taking you to my apartment so you can clean up, and, from what I see from the thinness of your frame, put some real food in you.”
Once I got into the car, I took a look around the Honda Civic, pulled in a deep breath, and passed out.
I was safe.
It's just that having the story start off with quite a detailed conversation, and then writing a period of two/three years in a few paragraphs, seems a little odd.