Mad Like Me

Yeah, so I’m sorry I didn’t finish last night’s entry. Now the memory’s all foggy anyway. But that was when I fell asleep, journal in hand. I’m trying to remember what happened next, but I can’t. Maybe I’ll ask Jay later.

I’m back. And I asked him. Apparently there was some hugging, and some talking, and some crying from both of us. Yay on the hugging. Even if I can’t remember it. I know, I’m hopeless. I just don’t give up, do I? Even when it’s in my best interest.

In other news, I’ve been asked repeatedly about my bruises. Mostly by doctors, but some of the patients showed genuine concern. Nice girl named Macy actually went so far as to sit with me at lunch to find out the story.

“What happened to you?” asked the girl. She was tall, and sturdily built, not thin like Willow. In her hand was a notepad with the Green Day logo on the cover.

“Raquel happened,” I muttered. I really didn’t want to talk about it. To tell people that I lost a fight was social suicide, at least, it was at school. But here we were all at rock bottom anyway, so why not? Still, it was hard to break the old habit of closing myself off.

The girl sat down across the table from me. Luna and I exchanged a Meaningful Glance that told me she wasn’t particularly comfortable either.

“I want the story,” said the girl, leaning forward. Her smile was eager, and you could see it in her eyes that she was lusting for a story.

“Umm…” I blinked, taken aback by her forwardness. “I’d really rather not…”

“Please?”

“Don’t push her, Macy,” mumbled Jay, not even looking up from the book he was reading. I couldn’t see the title, but I was more interested in watching those pretty eyes scanning the page, full of concentration. “This one’s tough.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” added Macy. “I didn’t even introduce myself properly. But you know how it is when you’re in pursuit of a story, don’t you, darling? It just eats you up.” She batted her eyelashes at me. I turned to Jay for guidance.

“Macy’s an aspiring journalist,” he sighed, snapping the book closed. Now I saw the cover. The Hunger Games. I loved that book. I’d have to talk about it with him later. “And due to her obnoxious tenacity, she’s a damn god one. Good thing, too. That’s all she’s got going for her.”

“That’s right,” affirmed Macy – did she even notice the thinly veiled insult? – as she scribbled something on the notepad. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to know what happened.”

“Well…” Ah, what the hell? “You know how we’ve all been sick, right? And you know how you sort of go into an antibiotic-and-illness-induced stupor, right? Well, I made the mistake of leaving my room when that was going on. And I ran into Raquel, and I sort of… called her an ugly bitchy bumblebee.”

“Bumblebee?” Macy glanced up from the notepad.

“It’s a long story,” I told her.
“You really don’t want to know,” Luna seconded in a rare moment of lucidity.
Jay just made a small, noncommittal noise. He was absorbed in the book again.

“Gotcha. Maybe another time. Well, if it happens again, or if you hear anything related, I’d really appreciate it if you told me.” She got up and loped away in her odd, stumbling gait.

“What’s her deal?” I wondered aloud. “Pushy much?”

“She’s bipolar,” Jay told me. “This is obviously one of the manic periods. Never liked her that much, to be honest. Too nosy.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. As we got up to head to our art therapy class, I pulled Jay aside, grabbing his wrist and dragging him away from the crowd.

“How are you doing?” I whispered. “As far as… trusting yourself?”

“Not much better. But I told Dr. Gonzalez, and she let me have a book from the library in hopes that it would keep me busy.”

“Aw. I really hope you feel better,” I said. “I know how much it hurts to feel that way, and if you ever want to talk… I’m open.” For anything, actually.

“I know. Thanks. But would you please let go of my arm?”

I hadn’t realized it, but I had his forearm in a vise grip. I mumbled an apology, letting go, and scurried away.

Art therapy wasn’t really anything interesting. It was more for the patients with minds even more fractured than my own. As evidenced by the childish drawings on the walls. But I sat next to Luna, which is an experience in and of itself.

“So, you’ve gotten bit by the love bug, I see,” she grinned. She was drawing what appeared to be some surrealist Cheshire cat.

I looked up from my drawing – I was sketching out fashion designs, women in Renaissance-style dresses, modern punks, you name it.

“What do you mean?”
“You think I don’t notice the way you look at my dear friend Jaybird? It’s plain as day, love. Of course, he doesn’t seem to know. Men are oblivious like that.”

I felt a blush rising in my cheeks.

“I… it is not like that!”

“No? Then why do you stare at him so much?”

“It’s just… look, he’s cute, alright? If a guy’s cute, I stare. Doesn’t mean I have a crush on him.”

“If you say so, dearie. But if you’re lying, I’d advise you to nip it in the bud. No offense, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. That kid’s queer as a cat in a coat.”

As I sat there trying to figure out that particular nugget of information, Luna reached over and scribbled something on my paper. In the ink of her purple pen, she had written: C+J. Surrounded by a heart. I snatched it away from her, and the pen made a dark purple trail across the page.

“The hell’s wrong with you, girl?” I whispered. “People can see that, you know!”

“Ah, like anybody here cares,” she said, waving it off. “I seem to be the only one who’s even noticed it.”

“Doesn’t that tell you something? Like, maybe you’re wrong?”

“I’m not always right, but I’m never wrong.”

“I – but – “ I sputtered. “That… that doesn’t even make sense!”

“Think about it.” She tapped her head in a general think-about-it gesture. “Smart, isn’t it?”
“Not really, no.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it.” She turned back to her own work, brown hair swishing and hitting me in the face.

I added the finishing bows to a Gothic-looking dress. It was pretty good in my opinion, though nothing like Jay’s artwork.

Goddammit, why can’t I get him out of my head? How many times have I thought about him today? I need to start counting. I believe the correct term is “infatuated” – from the Latin infatuare – “to make a fool of”. Which is certainly what this will come to.

I feel like banging my head against the wall. So frustrated and angry and depressed and I don’t even know why. If I had a gun right now, I am pretty sure I’d shoot myself. It’s that bad. Is this normal? My mom once said that it was part of being a teenager. But do all teens contemplate suicide on a daily basis?

But chasing normal never gets you anywhere, does it?

Spent the last twenty minutes curled up in a fetal position, head down, blocking out the world. I need my music. I’ll die without it. Literally. I will go to sleep and I won’t wake up, for I have lost the will to live. I’m not just being a drama queen. I honestly think this will happen.