Heavy

I'm writing this, mainly, to show my writing skills. This story will head to Mrs. Mel; third grade teacher. My own little project, because, I finally found my job. I'm happy.

Now, this story, it doesn't have magic, or major tragedy. Sure, there is some graphic scenes, but that makes for a good story. Growing up, my favorite author was Ernest Hemingway, I slowly became infatuated with Chuck Palahniuk; he wrote some of the best books I've ever read. Those two authors don't contrast much, do they? Aside from coming up with great one-liners.

Anyway, back to the story. Well, my story.

I told you, when I was in high school, I was October, the big dumb blond. I cut myself. I was chubby. I didn't buy the pretty clothes that were in style. I was label as poor.

I am poor, big, dumb blond October Fredrick.

I was actually born October May Fredrick on June 16th 1980. My parents; Willemina Fredrick and Billy Fredrick were both 30 when I was born. My father was a musician, my mother was his manager. They were both married before, both had two kids before, and finally found one another at the age of 26, married at 28, pregnant with me at 29. They never once questioned what their lifestyle would ever do to me.

That sounds bad, because, it never did anything to me. Well, my parents toured a lot. My dad was in a band called Chainsaw, lead singer and lead guitar. My mom was their tour manager, and manager in general. They went everywhere together; I wasn't allowed to go. 

I was semi-raised by my older siblings; Jeremy, John, Evan, and Billy Jr. (BJ). Boys, all boys, raised a little girl. My brothers taught me a lot about life and liberty, and happiness and sadness. They all left home when they were each 19; not on purpose, just got tired of watching me. I was then taken care of by a nanny. Then, when I was 17, I was taken away -but that's far from now and it relates to this story.

All right, let's get started-started.

I was in my French class, third row, in the back, knowing every answer on my sheet, but faking and lying. I pretended I didn't understand what Madam Giselle said when she scolded me in her perfect French. She told me off about my test, but I didn't care, I just didn't want anyone to make fun of me for being smart.

I foolishly wanted people to like me. Load of crap, I still didn't let anyone near me if I did want them to like me. I wasn't social. I didn't talk. I didn't want anyone to notice me.

DING DING DING! 

That's the answer. I didn't want to be noticed!

Anyway; I was 16, back of French class, and I was bored. I knew everything. I reached into my book bag, finding my peach colored pocket book. I needed to do something. So, I opened it up reached into the coin part and zip it open; but, alas, the bell rang.

I put away my things; Madam Giselle called after me, but I pretended I didn't hear or understand her.

I went out into the hall, keeping my head down, and to my next class. 4 minutes to get up the stairs and to Home Ec.

Hold on, did I mention I was a chubby fuck? I did, okay. I was made fun of because my hips were thicker than most, and my tits were a 34B at best, and I fancied French Fries more than the French language.

Home Ec, I had to cook. The fat girl must be in heaven, right? No.

As much as I love food, I loathed food. I hate food as much as I hate myself. But, I love food as much as I hate myself.

Inside class, I sat in the back. I knew cooking, but I burned my food a lot. I burnt the caramel. I over cooked the cake. I even burnt toast that was set on a timer.

On purpose, of course.

Girls in this class made fun of me. They could cook. Good little house wives. They said for me being as big as I am (I wasn't that big, I was maybe 10 pounds heavier than them, but no one, in our school, was fat, except the guys, and that was acceptable for some fucking reason) I sure couldn't cook.

Well, today, they were turning me inside out. Some things they said, I won't repeat, because they hurt. I remember everything they say. Hurtful words never fade, no matter how hard you try to shake them from your brain.

By the time this class was over, I was finished with school. No, it wasn't over, I was mentally done. I went into the girl's bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and got out my trusty pocket book. 

Again, I went digging into the coin pouch. I found my little safe haven. A slick, silver razor. 

Now, I had been cutting myself for a year. I was getting good at it. I was also getting good at hiding it. I cut myself because the release and rush were addicting. I loved to stretch and touch the cut; I loved watching the blood pool and roll down my wrist like bloody, sick tears.

It was a great escape.

I started cutting after watching a video about it in health class. There, two girls had come clean and said they cut, they said it was a release from the pressures of being cool. I decided to try it, to release some pressure, and I had thought it was one of the greatest pleasures ever discovered.

I cut myself on a daily basis, more than three times a day. I cut myself more times a day than I ate or brushed my teeth. It was an addicting ritual.

I never ever gone too far with it. I cut deep, but only as far as I could take it. I always cut down, the hope that maybe I would seriously hurt myself. I didn't want to kill myself, I just...didn't care if I did get that far.

In the bathroom, I was cutting down. Long sliver of scars, like chalk scores on a board. A few were scabbed, some were fresh, fully healed scars. I relished in the rush as I cut deeper and deeper. I cut so deep, I couldn't even feel it anymore.

I cut three, deep lines. It was now time I play with them. I used my nails to spread the skin; the blood dripped slowly, then I messed up and pulled it too far, or I cut too deep. Blood started to pool fast, I grew dizzy quick, and I suddenly felt this euphoric force take me over. I knew I had to clean up, but my vision was dizzying and I couldn't get the tissue to the wound quick enough.

I had woken up in the ambulance to the hospital. There was an oxygen mask on my face, fast talking and beeping. The sound of siren was ear splitting, the whole vehicle shook and I groaned.

My face hurt. I had face planted on that disgusting floor. The girl's bathroom isn't as sanitary as it sometimes smelled.

I didn't know what to think, really, when I was brought in. I wondered who had called the ambulance. I wondered who had found me. I'm sure whoever did probably told everyone I was a cutter. 

I was going to drop out, I had thought, I will never return.

I was put into a room, shoved IVs in my arm, and the nurses patched me up. They had called my parents, who were in Mississippi for a show, and then called my nanny; Elsa, who barely spoke English. They then called in a doctor, to talk to me.

"October? I'm Dr. Winn." She was a pretty, petite Asian woman in a pant suit. Her hair was pinned up in a bun, she looked exotic with her square framed glasses.

"Hi." I mumbled; I'm too well at speaking.

"Can we talk?" I just nodded, "Can we talk about what happened today?" I shrugged, "Did you try to kill yourself?"

"No." I told her flat out, "I was just...cutting. I hurt."

Dr. Winn nodded her head, "How long have you been cutting yourself?"

"A year."

"Do your parents know?"

I shrugged again, "Probably."

Dr. Winn hummed a response, "We would like to keep you under supervision for 72 hours, October."

"Why?"

"So, you won't hurt yourself."

"Why is it your prerogative if I hurt myself? It's my life."

Dr. Winn had seen stumped. She didn't know what to say. She simply sighed, and left the room. 

I didn't understand why a stranger would care if I hurt myself. I hurt myself for a purpose, and it isn't anyone's business but my own. But...I guess I understand, everyone wants to be able to say that they save someone.

Doctors are sadist. Animals that kill you just to bring you back to life. So they can brag by flashing their fancy cars, big houses, fast boats, vacation homes and their kids expensive education; screaming "I save lives". So they can say that what they do makes a difference. They don't make a difference, they're just boosting their ego, they're getting recognition for saving a measly little life.

Such as my own. 

As a kid, I lied to get attention a lot. I'd lie about my grades, before third grade, to get recognition. I lied to get people to like me. I lied to get attention...to get my parent's attention. No one ever really paid attention to me before I decided I didn't want anyone's attention anymore.

So, recognition is for sick, twisted, college educated doctors.

Me, I wasn't nowhere near becoming a doctor. I didn't want to be a doctor. Remember? I wanted to be happy. Or at least a writer, but I'm not as clever as I wish or come off as I do.