Status: I'm using this mainly as a venting story, so we'll see what happens with it, shall we?
Mary Quinn
One.
Mary Quinn sat on her bed. She stared at her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall across the room, barely able to make out her features in the dim light cast from her laptop beside her. She was quite a pretty girl; golden brown hair that fell past her shoulders in small waves, hazel eyes that shone even in the poor lighting, pink lips that naturally pouted a bit, a small button nose with a few freckles scattered here and there all encased in a heart shaped face. God, the spirits, luck - or whatever it is you believe in - had certainly graced the girl with good looks.
But Mary couldn't see it. All Mary saw when she looked in the mirror was those pesky fly-aways that she never could seem to tame. And, by God, her hair needed a trim; those dead ends were practically a mile long! And it was such an ugly color, along with her eyes. Muddy brown; what she would give to have blonde hair and blue eyes. So what if it was "cookie cutter?" Conformity was beauty, especially for a teenager.
She scrutinized every part of her face. Those freckles were awful. Had someone just taken a marker to her face and drawn dots across her nose? And the worst part about them was that they led the eye to her God-awful nose, or lack there of. She had always been insecure about her nose. It was too small for her face, practically drowned out by her other features. And the bridge of her nose drew the eye up to the caterpillars growing above her eyes. Her mother refused to let Mary get her eyebrows done, insisting that there was nothing wrong with them, that if her eyebrows were waxed even a little bit there would be nothing left. Mary disagreed whole-heartedly.
Like many teenagers her age, Mary Quinn thought the world was for shit. What was the point of it all? According to her, you grew up living under your parents rules and in school for the first eighteen years of life only to spend four years in college learning how to get a job as an adult only to be stuck in that nine-to-five job for the rest of your life. And perhaps, if you were lucky enough, maybe you'd have a family and then you'd have to slave away working to save up enough money to raise that family and then you would die, leaving the whole process to start over with your children.
According to Mary Quinn and the rest of the teenage population, there was no point to life.
Most teenagers like to say their depressed. Some of them are going through a rebellious phase and were merely crying out for attention. Some thought it was "cool" to be depressed, to fit the label of the insane artist or to fit the image of being emo. Some were just saying it because they thought they were supposed to. But Mary Quinn wasn't just saying it, she actually was. She had the therapist and the pills to prove it.
But unlike some other teenagers, Mary Quinn wasn't proud of her depression. She had the therapist and pills to prove she had it, but she never mentioned them to anyone. In fact, she would probably die on the spot if her friends found out about them. Mary was ashamed of her depression, and rarely ever talked about it to anyone. The only reason she had a therapist was because her parents had become so worried about her.
If only they knew, Mary thought.
They had no idea about the letters. Or the razors. Or the rubberbands. Or the tears. Or the nights spent out on the roof thinking about just letting go and jumping. Or the extra bottles of pills stashed under her bed that would surely have been enough to put her in a permanent sleep. See, her parents had no idea.
Mr. and Mrs. Quinn and no idea that Mary wanted, more than anything else, to die.
But Mary couldn't see it. All Mary saw when she looked in the mirror was those pesky fly-aways that she never could seem to tame. And, by God, her hair needed a trim; those dead ends were practically a mile long! And it was such an ugly color, along with her eyes. Muddy brown; what she would give to have blonde hair and blue eyes. So what if it was "cookie cutter?" Conformity was beauty, especially for a teenager.
She scrutinized every part of her face. Those freckles were awful. Had someone just taken a marker to her face and drawn dots across her nose? And the worst part about them was that they led the eye to her God-awful nose, or lack there of. She had always been insecure about her nose. It was too small for her face, practically drowned out by her other features. And the bridge of her nose drew the eye up to the caterpillars growing above her eyes. Her mother refused to let Mary get her eyebrows done, insisting that there was nothing wrong with them, that if her eyebrows were waxed even a little bit there would be nothing left. Mary disagreed whole-heartedly.
Like many teenagers her age, Mary Quinn thought the world was for shit. What was the point of it all? According to her, you grew up living under your parents rules and in school for the first eighteen years of life only to spend four years in college learning how to get a job as an adult only to be stuck in that nine-to-five job for the rest of your life. And perhaps, if you were lucky enough, maybe you'd have a family and then you'd have to slave away working to save up enough money to raise that family and then you would die, leaving the whole process to start over with your children.
According to Mary Quinn and the rest of the teenage population, there was no point to life.
Most teenagers like to say their depressed. Some of them are going through a rebellious phase and were merely crying out for attention. Some thought it was "cool" to be depressed, to fit the label of the insane artist or to fit the image of being emo. Some were just saying it because they thought they were supposed to. But Mary Quinn wasn't just saying it, she actually was. She had the therapist and the pills to prove it.
But unlike some other teenagers, Mary Quinn wasn't proud of her depression. She had the therapist and pills to prove she had it, but she never mentioned them to anyone. In fact, she would probably die on the spot if her friends found out about them. Mary was ashamed of her depression, and rarely ever talked about it to anyone. The only reason she had a therapist was because her parents had become so worried about her.
If only they knew, Mary thought.
They had no idea about the letters. Or the razors. Or the rubberbands. Or the tears. Or the nights spent out on the roof thinking about just letting go and jumping. Or the extra bottles of pills stashed under her bed that would surely have been enough to put her in a permanent sleep. See, her parents had no idea.
Mr. and Mrs. Quinn and no idea that Mary wanted, more than anything else, to die.
♠ ♠ ♠
Okay, so I realize that I shouldn't be starting another story when I have two unfinished ones that still need a ton of work. But I was feeling depressed before and in a bad mood and this kind of came out just like word vomit and I decided to post it. I already had the layout, just had to add the title to the banner and everything was published.I don't know what's going to happen with this. I don't know if it's going to be finished or how regularly it will be updated. I'm just going to use it as an outlet when I'm in pissy moods and upset for no reason. So, because it's more of an outlet than an actual project like my other stories, I'm going to try my hardest to not become attached to it until after my other two stories are finished.
So basically, no promises with this one. However, with the way I've been feeling lately there will most likely be more updates. Until next time (indefinitely),
~Kathleen