Half Dead

The speech therapist corrected my mother and father, and apparently Dr. Wilbur, on his title. He is a speech therapist, Dr. Neal. Dr. Neal is just out of whatever school teaches you how to speak, and he's really young. He's about 25 or 26, he doesn't display his age openly. He has a full head of hair, he wears a dress suit without a tie and two buttons on his shirt unbuttoned. The sleeves are rolled up, he looks as if he's a real hard ass.

And he is.

He's on the verge of yelling at me because I won't participate. 

He's tried to coax me with a smile; "C'mon, Violet, I know you can do it."

His smile gets smaller, "I know you want to."

With a happy voice, "I bet you miss listening to the radio and singing along."

And with a small frown that is gradually getting bigger, "Don't you miss laughing?"

Then with undertones of threats, "You have to do this for me, Violet."

And now with guilt trips, "What about your parents? You don't want to disappoint them, do you?"

Guilt's not gonna work here, bud. Mr. Neal, get out of my face.

He leans back in his chair, "What's wrong?"

I grab my pen and pad; I DONT WANNA DO THIS

"And why not?"

I PLAN TO KILL MYSELF SOMEDAY WHAT'S THE POINT OF RELEARNING TO TALK?

He sighs, "Didn't realize I was dealing with a quitter." 

I rolled my eyes and begin to write; A VERY UNSUCCESSFUL QUITTER WHO CAN PUT UP WITH ANYTHING APPARENTLY

"I'm here to help, you know." Dr. Neal is very unpleased.

I flip the page over; SORRY FOR WASTING YOUR TIME GOODBYE

I got up and left the office and meet my parents' eager gaze. I just shake my head and lift my notebook to show them the same sign. They both give me these sadden frowns, and I close the notebook and lower my head, leaving the lobby.

My parents get up and go into the office, while I go out to the car and wait for them. I knew for a simple fact that they wanted to know what happened. Dr. Neal was certainly giving them the details of their little defiant mute daughter.


In choir the next day, I sit it out at my desk. My teacher doesn't really care what I do. I don't participate, but he can't fail me, I don't exactly not do anything. I show up and I don't cause trouble. I'm the teachers' wet dream; a student who doesn't talk back and does their written homework.

As I sat at my desk, Raven had smirked at me, "Good God, why are you still here? Didn't I tell you to kill yourself?"

I bow my head and keep my eyes adverted. I feel ashamed for letting her get to me. I'm also ashamed that I couldn't fulfill her wishes. 

Raven doesn't know how bad I wish I were dead. She doesn't understand I crave to be a dead body. To cease to exist. To be nothing but a corpse that no one cares about anymore.

It's a dream. I want my dreams to come true.

Cheri had heard her and the girl had taken hold of my shoulder after class; "She's just a bitch, Violet."

I know she means well, and that's all nice, but I don't want her sympathy. I don't care for sympathy. God had none when he created Raven and Gloria and their friends. If God is real, anyway.

I don't "say" a thing to Cheri, I keep walking to my next class. And in my next class is where I'm alone before lunch, then PE and then Religious Studies. In my English class is where I like to be, and the second place is the library, where class was taking place.

I love to read. I love words. One time, when I was a silly little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write magical stories about happy places and adventures. Then I met Raven and Gloria and she died. I can't remember the last time I actually wanted to write. I can't even remember what it was like to be happy.

But I do get a bit of joy when I smell old books and freshly print books. I love to skim my fingers over the piles of books I've read. Our librarian is amazed by me; I've read every book in there, almost, except for the encyclopedia and the bible. 

I never had a desire to read old fiction.

When this class comes to the library, I sit all the way in the back by the biographies and read about the life of John Lennon and Yoko Ono. It's the only book with curse words, and it seems like it would be fiction. We only have non fiction books in the Catholic library; they're all educational and somehow related to god.

Anyway, by class' end, I'm already near the door to leave. I want to make it to the bathroom before the first stall is taken and filled with anymore germs.


I have gum in my hair. It's purple Bubble Yum! and knotted in just below my ear lobes. Father Donovan made Gloria spit it out and she took it out of her mouth and stuck it all along my hair. I think she pretended she was gonna stick it in it's wrapped because Father Donovan didn't see her do it. I felt her do it; after she laughed and laughed until her ribs ached.

There wasn't anything I could do. I should have taken another seat instead of sitting in front of her. Cheri had stated the obvious when we were allowed to leave; "You have purple gum in your hair."

That's how I know what color is it. I could smell the brand though; I am a former fat girl.

I walked out of school as kids snickered and pointed at me. I couldn't cry. I didn't want to, not with everyone around.

As I got down the steps, I saw the stupid boy leaning against my mother's car. He had a smile and I instantly regretted even giving him a single thought. I hate him.