Dead at 15

“Here you go, April.” I grinned and took the small cylinder shaped container of pills in my hand. My psychotherapist, Stephanie McAdams, smiled at me from behind her desk. “These will help you obtain a more light and natural sleep. The idea is to wean you off the heavier medication. Take one before you go to bed with water, but if you have had a day that is a little stressful, take two,” she told me kindly. That was what I liked about Stephanie, she was nice, without being condescending as I found so many people to be.

“Any risk?” Mom asked in a wary tone.
“Hardly any at all,” Stephanie assured.
“Hardly?”
“She would have to take the entire lot to overdose. April is not stupid, nor in the state of mind to think of suicide. I know her Linda.”
“It’s just…her birthday’s coming up and-and.” I rubbed her back as she broke down into sobs. To be honest, I was a little tired of this. I knew that she was upset about having three dead children I mean, I was too but I didn’t let it get me down all the time. The pity from so many people was getting to her head. She was becoming attention-seeking. Then my watch beeped, saving me from having to endure my mother's incessant weeping.

I looked up at the ceiling. Tile counting it was, seeing as there were only five lights in the room. One, two, three… I always got the feeling that if I didn’t count, something terrible would happen. As a kid I’d get terribly upset and have panic attacks if my watch batteries ran out or if I didn’t have it with me for some reason. Now I was always prepared. This was all garbage, I know, but I couldn’t help it! That was the thing with me, I had to count. My sanity depended on it.

Symmetry, numbers and routine ruled my life. My bedroom, which I shared with July, had to be perfectly symmetrical. I made the two beds everyday. They had sky blue covers and navy blue sheets. If I couldn’t make them so that they’d bounce a quarter, I’d rip everything off and start from scratch. There was one closet, and thankfully, the door of it matched the one that led out into the hall. I let July keep all her things in there as long as I got to organize the rest of the room.

At that moment, our room was plastered with fluro yellow sticky notes. Stephanie said having mirrors in my room wasn’t a good idea at all, so March (while she was alive) suggested that I place two sticky notes, one on the left wall and one on the right wall for symmetry, every time my mood changed and wrote on them how I felt. There had to be exactly one inch distance between each note. I kept a ladder in April’s closet for the ones closer to the ceiling. It took me a while to bribe her into giving me the space - and a lot of chocolate.

Anyway, March said the notes were like a diary, kind of similar to how her photos were for her. She said it was always very important to date things (I had an inkling of why she thought so,) so I bought a box of twenty identical black pens, and began. Eventually I started recording the times as well, then a brief three (it’s a lucky number, and I hated four because in Chinese, the word for four also meant death), reasons why I felt that way. Then it progressed onto me writing down what I had eaten that day. Mom put a stop to that though when I told her. She was mortified. Apparently O.C.D. could sometimes go hand-in-hand with an eating disorder like anorexia.

Something miraculous happened after I started the note-taking though, well I found it miraculous. It took longer for me to need to count. At home I’d count the lights, and at school the ceiling tiles and desks, etcetera. I used to have to count one of those things, every thirty-six minutes and thirty-six seconds but now I could go sixty-three minutes and sixty-three seconds without needing to. This was not to be confused with one hour, four minutes and three seconds, by the way. As it’d been established, my obsession was now with the sticky notes.

“Okay, I’m calm now,” Mom said as I finished counting, resetting my watch.
“Are you sure Mom? You’re hardly ever sure of anything anymore. Just this morning you couldn’t decide if you really wanted that granola bar. Granola bars are okay I guess. I don’t really like them how July does but July’s weird-” Stephanie cut me off.
“April, what have we talked about?” She asked in a stern tone.
“One-sentence answers!” I opened my mouth to say more but instead pulled out a sticky note and pen.

(What I wrote…)

Date: 04/05/01
Time: 13:17:26-seventeen minutes and twenty-six seconds past one PM
Mood: Frustrated
Reasons:
· Stephanie
· Haven’t put lesson into proper practise
· Should stop talking so much, but want to really badly!

I pulled off a second and started writing one with a mood of ‘guilty’ with the same reasons as previously written.
“Anyway, if you’re feeling like April could, as unlikely as it is, overdose, just keep the medication yourself and monitor how many she is taking,” Stephanie said to Mom.
“That sounds…reasonable,” Mom replied and let out a small smile.

***

We’d spent my fifteenth birthday out at the lake about a two hour drive away and we were now coming back to the house for cake and presents. Mom had decided to stay behind. I’d found out she hadn’t gotten me anything so I asked Dad to take us out so she would have the chance to get me something. I loved presents, as spoiled as I sounded. What I said in my mind was completely different to what came out of my mouth though. The contrast amused me on a regular basis.

Anyway, it was a long car ride (or rather large van, should I say?) and that meant…NINETY-NINE BOTTLES OF BEER! My most favorite song, ever.
“August! C’mon your turn!” May prompted. August sat with her arms folded. She could never resist May for some reason. I knew that it was more out of pity than anything though. May was, well, a bit of a whore. The whole town knew that, but then again it wasn’t exactly highly populated. But everyone loved gossiping.

“Fifty-seven bottles of beer on the wall, fifty-seven bottles of beer. You take one down, pass it around, fifty-six bottles of beer on the wall,” August sang. For a ten year old, she had a really nice voice. Unfortunately, she was sitting next to December, who had a voice like a foghorn. We all covered our ears, apart from Dad who was driving.
“FIFTY-SEVEN BOTTLES-”
“IT’S FIFTY-SIX!” I screamed back. December’s mouth hung open in astonishment and everyone else began laughing. No one was allowed to mess up numbers with me around.
“Okay. FIFTY-SIX BOTTLES OF BEER…” I sighed contently. The world made sense again.

***

“Mom, I need my pills.” I announced as I strolled into the living room, pajama clad. Mom and Dad turned away from ESPN to look at me.
“Uh, April honey, they’ve kind of gone missing.” Mom said whilst biting her lip. What?! Gone?! No! No! No! What do I do? I need those! Wait calm down April! Just write this down and everything will be okay. I suppressed the urge to scream and panic, by taking a deep breath and counting to nine.
“Okay then. Good night,” I said in a strangely calm voice.
“Night dear,” Mom replied nonchalantly and turned back to the idiot box.

I stomped off into my bedroom, but amazingly, my pills were on my bed.
“See April? It’s fine,” I muttered to myself. I switched on my desk lamp, wrote down my drastic mood changes, and stuck them on the walls. I then took two pills, considering my earlier stress, with some water before switching my desk light off and getting into bed. I tried my best to block out the events from the day and stop thinking about the next beep of my watch, like Stephanie was continuously telling me to do, and went to my happy place.

Happy place? More like final resting place.

April Zoey Lambert
04/11/86-04/11/01