Cosmetic Bliss

I think I would make a phenomenal actress.
Honestly, if I really gave it a go I’d probably be Oscar worthy and have a big ass star on Hollywood Blvd with my hand prints signing it.
I’ve mastered the skill by living my day to day life.
Acting. Pretending to be this happy, well liked, straight A girl, who’s always out on the weekend and doesn’t seem to have a worry in the world.
But that’s all BULLSHIT; straight up, no chaser. If people could really see me, through the façade, they would see the girl who wakes up pissed off every morning because she woke up at all. They would see that whenever I’m upset about seeing someone die on the news it’s not because I’m upset for them, but because I’m envious and wished, PRAYED, that it could have been me.
Sometimes I wonder why I want to die so bad. I have a pretty great life in correlation to others. I have both my parents who are there and love me unconditionally. I have my three older brothers, Aiden, Micah (sounds like my-cah), and Nathan, who can be unbearingly overprotective, but I couldn’t love them anymore if I tried.
I have great friends. Amazing friends. My bestfriend, Leighton (sounds like lay-ton), has been with me through thick and thin since 2nd grade. She’s my ride or die, my sister from another mister, the salt to my pepper. And not mention Porter, Sophie, Nadia, Kat, and Hill, who always bring light to my dark spirit.
And let us not forget my sweetie, Asher. Captain of the soccer team, 4.1 G.P.A, nice, loves my friends and they love him back, funny, and always a perfect gentleman, and the biggie, not afraid of my brothers. Not to mention 110% faithful, and Lord knows how hard that is to find now-a-days.
But even with all these wonderful people and all my extracurricular’s, social committee, national honor society, debate team, choir, and cheerleading (Captain. I’m to suppose to put the freaking CHEER in cheerleading), I’m still miserable waiting to be kissed by death.
Sometimes I wonder why don’t I just do it. Take my own life. It doesn’t have to be painful either. Pop more than a few of my moms oxycodones, that she claims is for back pains but lets be real she just loves being high, and be out of here. But of course I’m the suicidal bitch with a conscience. I just can’t imagine putting all the people I just named in so much grief because of me. Especially my dad. I’m his only little girl, who he loves more than life, so he’d definitely take it hard, probably harder than anyone else. Not to mention, my 4th grade Religion teacher told me whoever commits suicide is sent straight to hell. Now I’m not even sure I believe in God, but I’ll take precaution. I want to die not, live in eternal damnation.
But even as I lay here, reminding my self of all the blessing I have in life, I’m still pissed as shit to see another morning.
I shield my, still sensitive, eyes from the sun peeking through my bedroom curtains. It’s up high, shining bright in a clear blue sky and I can’t help but to think it is God laughing at me in my demise. Like he, or she (still up for debate) is getting some sick twisted pleasure out of waking me up every morning, knowing how I truly feel.
Realizing my bed won’t magically burst into flames, leaving only my ashes behind, I roll out of my bed disappointed. I turn on my radio and Travis Porter’s ‘Bring it Back’ is on. Being my favorite ass shaking song at the moment, I turn around in my mirror and start shaking my butt while looking at my reflection.
I listen to the words and try to mimic the words through my dancing, Runnin in that p---- like a crash dummy. Bend it over, touch ya toes, Shake that ass for me. Bounce that ass on the flo', bring it back up. Hit a split on the d---, shawty act up. Now bring it back.
I bend over a little too far causing all my weight to go forward and I do a tumble landing on my back. So much for be sexy.
I try to stand up but slip on my rug causing me to fly back on my back again. I stay there for a moment, sprawled out, looking at my white ceiling, then begin laughing hysterically at my series of unfortunate events. Micah opens my door, without knocking, and stairs at me laughing from the doorway.
“Have you been taking moms oxy?” He asks seriously.
I laughingly snort. “No big brother, that’s your thing not mine. Help me.” I hold out my hand for him. He grabs it pulls me off the floor.
“I’m just asking because if we’re both taking them she’ll notice. We need to divide them up.” He says, looking as if he’s doing the calculations in his head.
I laugh. “Look at you! You’re sweating bullets just at the thought of sharing you addict. Don’t worry; I’m not interested so they’ll be plenty when you want to scratch your oxy itch.”
I grab my towel hanging off the back of computer chair. I turn him around so I can push him out on my way to the shower.
“Don’t insult me Sage. You know I only take it for the cash. If you want to get all judgy I’ll remember that when you come up to me with the puppy dog eyes wanting some cash.” He playfully threats.
“Don’t kid yourself big brother, you couldn’t resist this”, I point to my face and circle it, “even if you tried. Now out, out.” I slightly push him out the door and close it behind me.
I turn on the shower, waiting for it to steam before getting in. I open the medicine cabinet and grab my tampon box. Inside, I take out the small blade I keep hidden there.
It was given to me by Amy, a week before she committed suicide herself. She was the only person who truly knew the real me and all my self-destructive thoughts. We met online in a chatroom where all these suicidal teens gather and share different ideas on how to ‘pull the plug’. Yeah I know, completely screwed up but it was nice to talk to people who thought like me. Anyway, I considered swallowing your tongue in the group conversation; folding your tongue to the back of your throat then swallowing. I heard it was possible. Amy decided to send me a personal instant message.
Amy- that’s dumb.
Me- why?
Amy- because then you would have to sit there and choke on your tongue before you die.
Me- then what do you recommend?
Amy- the sweetest way. Slit wrists.
From there we began this twisted friendship based solely on suicide. How to do it, when to do it, where to do it. It’s really sick, but she got me. She understood the pains that I couldn’t share with anyone else. Three months in, she asks for my address so she can “send me something”. A week later I received a package from her. Inside was this blade and a letter.
It really was the sweetest way. See you in hell.
Amy.
At the bottom of the page was an A made with blood; her blood. I found out later it was her mother that found the package and sent it to me. I’m sure without really knowing what was inside it.
I read the letter 20 times, maybe more, then put it in a box in my closet and never looked at it again. I haven’t been back to the chatroom either. I just wouldn’t feel right without her.
But I didn’t cry, didn’t mourn. I’d be a hypocrite if I had. The whole point of the relationship was to help each other get to that point, which is why she sent me the package. To help me do it, the sweet way, just like her.
So everyday, while I wait for the shower to steam, I take out the blade seeing if today would be the day. But it never is, just like today.
I put the blade back in the box to try again tomorrow.
I jog downstairs to the kitchen after my shower and getting dressed. My mom was at the stove scrambling eggs to add to the sausage, waffles, fruit assortment already laid out on the counter.
“Goodmorning mother.” I greet her, kissing her on the cheek,
“Hi sweetie, can you set the table for me? Breakfast is almost ready.” She asks, while adding cheese to the omelet.
“Yes m’am!” I salute. I open the cabinet and grab plates and cups set the table. As I’m setting the table the doorbell rings. Seconds past and no one answers the door.
“I guess I’ll get it.” I mumble.
I open the door and it’s a very frozen Asher shivering; his smooth, dark brown skin turning red at his nose and cheeks.
“Hi boyfriend.” I greet him with a smile. I open the door wider for him to come through then close it after him. I take off his coat and hat and hang it on the coat rack.
I look and admire his broad shoulders, strong arms, and perfectly sculpted abs (that I can see a little outline of in his perfect fitting sweater). Standing at 6’4, with a perfect body and complexion, hazel eyes, and his short tapered layered cut, he is mistaken for a model all the time; and I love it.
He grabs me around my waist pulling me to him. He runs one hand down my hair and pulls my face closer until our lips meet in a soft, gentle kiss. He puts his face in my neck, leaving it there and breaths in, smelling the perfume I put on, just for him, knowing he loves it.
“I missed you.” He murmurs against my skin while is hands move from my lower back to my ass with a firm grasp. Feeling his hands roam and his cool breath on my skin makes me shiver in delight.
“I missed you too.” I respond, my voice huskier than intended. He looks me in my eyes and I can tell he see’s the desire because his glaze over with lust. He looks behind us, making sure no one is coming, then pushes me, aggressively yet carefully, against the door. He picks me up and I wrap both my legs around him and squeeze as tight as I can so no space is between us.
I wrap my arms around his neck while he grabs my hair and pushes his lips on mine. I feel his tongue slide across my bottom lip wanting to come in. I open my mouth, invitingly, and feel his cool, wet tongue find mine. Feeling his tongue massage my own, I grab his hips and thrust them into mine as hard as I can, wanting to feel him through his pants. He moans in my mouth and slides his hand up my shirt and under my bra. Everywhere his, now warm, fingers touch leaves a sensational burning that drives me crazy. I feel his hands go around to my bra strap and-
“Sage? Who was at the door?” We hear my mother call from the kitchen.
We jump apart surprised by her voice. I forgot anyone was even here.
“Coming mother!” I respond to her fixing my disheveled clothes and hair but never leaving Asher’s intense, still lust-filled, gaze. I kiss him one last time then whisper “later” in his ear.
We walk into the kitchen and my mother lights up when she see’s Asher.
“Asher!” she exclaims hugging him. “We’ve missed you. How was your trip? Did you enjoy yourself?”
Asher and his family went to Aspen this past week for Christmas.
“It was great time Mrs. Rosen thanks. It would have been perfect if the Rosen was there.” He said accusingly with a smile.
My mom threw her hands up in surrender laughing. “Blame Mr. Rosen for that when he comes back from his business trip! Aspen sound perfect to me, but we just had to be at home. ‘It’s tradition!’” She mimics my father, poorly.
I giggle. “I don’t think daddy would appreciate how you think he really sounds.”
She waves away my words. “I missed Aspen, he gets poor imitation. We’re not even close to being even. Sage can you get your brothers for breakfast?”
“BREAKFAST!!” I yell so they can hear me upstairs.
“Not what I had in mind.” She says drily. “Can you help me takes these dishes to the table and not take the easy way out and throw them?”
I stick my tongue out at her playfully and follow her with the remaining dishes. Asher comes behind us and holds our chairs out.
“Thank you honey. You’re a perfect gentleman.” My mom compliments sitting down.
“Isn’t he?” I agree, looking up at him admiringly. I hold my head up and he bends down to kiss me before taking his seat.
“Get a room!” Aiden complains while coming in the room, with Nathan and Micah in tow.
“Jealous?” Asher teases, quickly kissing me again for the groans.
Micah gags. “I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”
“Real mature.” I criticize.
“Micah mind your words at the table. ‘Throw up’ is not appropriate.” My mother scolds.
“Oh and them sucking face is?” Nathan asks doubtful.
“You all are just jealous.” She declares, agreeing with Asher, winking at me.
“WHAT!” they all say in unison.
I laugh at their outbursts and watch my family go back and forth in silly banter.
I really do have an amazing life.
I should want to live.
But I dont