Sullen, dark eyes stare blankly into the black, powder coated steel of a bedroom lock box. A young girl, maybe 14, stands rigidly with clenched fists and gritted teeth. Tipped sideways on the bed, lays a half-empty bottle of cheap, dry gin. She’s stood in this spot before. A portrait painted a dozen times. Steady streams of hate and anger pass down her cheeks and permeate the carpet beneath her feet. She wishes it was enough to drown herself.
5…4…8…3
What a meaningless combination of numbers.
In her head, the hammering of a thousand insults thunder like a rock drill in stiff marble.
“You’re a loser, Chloe.”
“Nobody likes you.”
“Just kill yourself.”
The hair pulling. The laughter. The jokes and pranks. The name calling and fake friends. Her eyes wince as she looks to her bottle. One more drink before there’s no turning back.
5…4…8…3
“Those eyes are getting blurry, Chloe. Focus. You’re not backing out again.”
She looks to the nightstand. Folded gently, her father’s glasses. He doesn't understand her. He deflects and distracts her pain with jokes and presents, but she needs more. She needs a father. Someone with superpowers to bandage invisible wounds. He's always so busy. And her mother, no longer around. He’ll probably miss her. But, what can a young girl do when alone and backed into a corner? Her cries for help have been silenced too many times. Her mouth is frozen shut.
She drops her bottle as the insults return, once more. Shattered memories choke her like poison gas. She’s pecked at like vultures on an injured seal pup.
“Why are you so weird?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What a freak!”
5…4…8…3
“Did Dad choose that number? Or, did it come with the safe? Why do I even care?”
“DO IT NOW, CHLOE!”
“They’ll all be sorry when you’re gone.”
Only one eye open now. Her hand raises, finger outstretched. She feels the cold, flat number keys of the black lock box.
5…4…8…3
An inanimate beep, a flashing light, and the box door opens slowly like a time machine. Inside, clear, orange bottles. Her breakfast for the broken. Each filled with round, white, confetti. The cuddly teddy bears, security blankets, and other comforts that help her forget.
LORAZEPAM 4mg
DISSOLVE ONE TABLET
UNDER THE TONGUE
DAILY IF REQUIRED
“They want normal? I’ll give them normal.”
The bottle cracks open with a jolting rattle.
1…2…3…4…5…6...7
That’s too many....
Her eyes close and the drowsiness sets in. As her lungs say goodnight, her heart screams for life. Because that's all that hearts know. Convulsions of surrender spew bile and foam, while her limbs twitch with one final surge of toxic blood.
Bye, Chloe.
5-4-8-3. Such a meaningless number...
5-L
4-I
8-V
3-E
A father's last message to his daughter.
Each one of us is fighting an invisible battle. But, we're conditioned to strive for a prefabricated vision of normalcy. This vision doesn't exist. We hide our problems, vulnerabilities, and emotions out of fear of judgement and persecution. An inherent need to survive an unforgiving world. Reality is, my normal, your normal, they're both a little bit fucked. That's what makes us individual. Before you judge, label, ridicule or passively brush off a person's actions and behaviours, listen and understand that we're all throwing wild punches at life in an attempt to make it through another day. We all breakdown at certain stages in our lives, but that's what the hero's journey is made of. Rather than pushing people down with short-sighted judgments and vitriolic jabs, prop the vulnerable up with open eyes, an open ear, and empathic reassurance.
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