Green Eyes

I stared at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing my reflection. My brown eyes, which usually were flecked with gold, were dark, almost black. The bags under them were noticeably deeper, and a darker violet than usual. My once vibrant auburn hair was now tarnished and dull. I looked dead; my complexion was pale, and my cheek bones were more prominent as I had lost a substantial amount of weight.
I pulled open the mirror, a cabinet revealed behind it. I ran a finger across the prescription bottles, choosing my poison. I decided I wanted to take a very long nap; I grabbed an orange translucent bottle with a label reading Diphenhydramine—sleeping pills. I popped the cap off, and stared inside at the pink and white capsules. I poured them out into the palm of my hand; I then grabbed the glass cup by the faucet of the sink, filling it with water. I balanced the pile of pills and glass in my hands, taking a deep breath. Four at a time, I swallowed the pills. I finished them down the glass of water; it took a moment before the effects took over. I dropped the cup, it shattering into a hundred of crystalline pieces. I grabbed a hold of the sink, keeping myself from falling along with the glass.

My legs felt numb; I dragged my feet against the bathroom tile as I lethargically made my way over to my bed. With blurry vision, and a corrosive feeling in the pit of my stomach, I collapsed onto the plush comforter, my eyes feeling heavy, and my breathing slowing. I stared up at the ceiling, it spinning before my eyes as if I was looking through a kaleidoscope. I suddenly felt cold. Darkness seethed around me, and it wasn’t long before I was consumed by it.

***

“Elodie? Ms. Chandler?”

My eyes met his, salt and pepper eyebrows knitted together. His dark somber eyes scanned my demeanor, as if he was trying to pin my exact thoughts. That was his problem—he couldn’t figure out my thoughts, or my reasons. We would sit in his office, which resembled a study for a spinster sitting on a large amount of money. Bookshelves exhibited his walls, their binds made of gold cloth—expensive. His desk was mahogany, occupied with a laptop and stacks of papers and files. An overhead light with dim bulbs was placed in the middle of the room, hovering over the russet leather chairs. They were soft, and comfortable, but this small asset didn’t easer my nerves any less.

“Please, this is our last session. For the past 6 months, we have talked about everything—excluding the reason why you did what you did.”

I tore my eyes from staring about the room, my mind lulling, to give him my best naïve look.
“Did what? Oh! You mean try to kill myself. Well, it’s simple David. Life failed to amuse me. I was bored.” I crossed one leg over the other, and placed my intertwined hands on my lap.

His face was blank. I guess he wasn’t in the mood to feed into my—how did he always put it—childish ways.

“So you didn’t try to commit suicide because of…what’s his name…Carter?”

If Dr. Schwartz was trying to hit a nerve, he did—with a steel bat. I stood up, and grabbed my messenger bag and swinging it over my shoulder. I pointed a finger to him, trying to control myself before I did something I’d regret.

“Fuck you pal! You know nothing about me or Carter.” With that, I stormed out of his office, making note to slam his door with all my might. The wall rattled, and I was sure I heard something fall and break. I hope it was his framed license. He had to be the worst shrink in the world. I was glad that was our last session. But my parents wouldn’t be too pleased to hear about my temper tantrum.

***

The car ride was never ending; I was sick of sitting. I wanted to stretch my legs. My parents kept quite the entire time. They seemed to always be mad at me these days. The only time they spoke was to ask if I had to use the restroom. Other than that, the ride was dead silent. My iPod was dead, and I was stuck listening to the lulling rumble of the car’s engine.

The view from the window stayed the same for hours; vast country, and small farms spread miles apart. I wasn’t clued in on where they were moving to; the only hint was it was a small town, and I would be better off. London seemed like old news as our journey ventured further; I couldn’t say I’d miss it. Nothing was being left behind—no friends, or family. We were permanently being detached.

As if my prayers had been answered, we seemed to have reached our destination. We arrived in a town called Holmes Chapel. It looked decent enough. We entered a quaint neighbourhood; people were out mowing their lawns, and some raking leaves. It looked like your average community. But I couldn’t help but wonder, what’s the catch?
“Well, here we are.” My father announced, his voice ringing in her ears. They pulled into the driveway of a two story home. It was made of brick, with large pane windows with white shutters. Flowers in pots hung from the porch. A flower bed laid on either side of the stones steps leading up to the front door. It too was white like the shutters. The house was nothing short of cozy. It resembled a cottage; my mother was definitely the one to have picked this house. She was always talking about buying a cottage when she got older and it was just her and my dad.

A short lady in a grey suit emerged from the house. Her red hair was wound in a tight bun. She strolled over to my parents, extending a hand.

“Mr and Mrs. Chandler. It’s nice to meet you in person. I’m Eleanor. We talked on the phone.”
My parents shook her hand, and her eyes turned to me. “This must be your lovely daughter.” I smiled weakly.
“We have a great school in town, Holmes Chapel Comprehensive.” My parents nodded their heads; they would love for me to return to school. I hadn’t been in school since I tried offing myself. But my parents thought it best to give it a go. I wasn’t in such a fragile state as I was. Maybe going to school was what I needed—maybe not. But I didn’t have a choice; my parents were eating up Eleanor’s speech about their impeccable academic achievements.

I took a few steps forward, taking in our new house. It wasn’t bad; it was bigger than our old home. I couldn’t help but notice movement from the corner of my eye. I saw the curtain of a window at the top of the house move. I turned to speaking adults.

“What’s up there?” I ask. Eleanor and my parent’s eyes stare at where I was pointing. A sullen look overcame Eleanor—a sadness really. She frowned, staring blankly at the window.

“That’s the attic.”