Don't You Forget About Me By 107yearoldvirgin.pdf

Don't You Forget About Me By 107yearoldvirgin

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7048458/1/

(Prologue)

hollow soul

with empty eyes

no pleasure from your kiss derived

shallow heart

with wordless lies

camouflaged by open thighs

And still I yearn

and crave

and cry

to be with you until I die

The room is quiet except for the sound of Edward's paper as he crinkles it

between his hands, shifting back into his seat as his words die off and settle

around us.

The piece of gum I am chewing on is suddenly gone and it takes me a moment to

realize that my mouth is hanging wide open and the gum has fallen to the cold

tile floor beneath my little chair that I am sitting cross-legged in.

I'll need to pick that up before Group is dismissed.

No one speaks, and I don't even bother looking around the room at the other

misfits assembled on either side of me. They're probably equally as shocked by

what Edward has just read as I am. I mean, who knew we had 2011's version of

the pervtastic e.e. cummings in our little group?

I've been here for less than two weeks, and apparently I have only learned one

thing:

Edward's ex girlfriend is a soulless whore.

She most likely cheated on the guy, even though he's ridiculously cute, as far as

I'm concerned.

Which is unfortunate, considering that we're in a mental institution.

And he believes that he is dead.

Picking at the skin around my cuticles, I sigh.

Recovery is gonna be a bitch.

(Introductions)

Suicide isn't funny.

It's just…not. Socially, it's not something that you joke about. But I can honestly

say, without the slightest hint of sarcasm, that it could be considered funny when

it becomes as clumsily botched as my attempt was.

Let me backtrack by saying that the first time I wanted to kill myself, I was six

years old.

I know, I know. That mental picture has probably made some of you stop in your

tracks. Six, you say?

Yeah.

I remember holding a knife in my kitchen, somewhere around two o'clock in the

morning, and just wondering what it would be like to die. At some point I'd seen

a television show where this little girl was holding a butcher knife in her hand and

her little brother came tearing around the corner without warning, and he

impaled himself on it.

I think he was three years old?

Anyway, my Mom and Dad had gone on and on about what a horrible tragedy it

was, and I'd been fascinated by their reactions because they barely even paid me

the time of day, yet they were mourning the blood loss of a three year old. I

suppose I'm one of those crazy bitches who gets jealous of people that

experience tragedies. Like the girls who wished they could fall into a well like that

baby Jessica. Or the girls who lamented not being held hostage overseas like

Jessica Lynch.

Come to think of it, maybe I just wanted to be named Jessica?

Sorry. Reeling it back in.

By the time I was twelve, I knew that wristcutters who went from side to side

were just crying out for attention. If you wanted it done right, you went up and

down. And you didn't talk about it or cry about it, you just did it. Kind of like my

friend in Middle School who was a cutter wannabe. She would talk about how she

wanted to. She would cry about how she almost did it. She would call her cousin

three states over in the middle of the night to confess how she'd wanted to do it

but hadn't and blah blah blah.

The first time I did it, I shoved a thumbtack into my hand. Just like that. Then I

went about my day.

I guess the reason I finally decided to let it all go was because I didn't really have

anything to stick around for. See, I'm what you'd call, 'invisible'.

Like, people don't see me.

I'm not exaggerating. My nickname is Invisibella. My Dad gave it to me when I

was five because he stepped on me. All. The. Time.

Like, I just wasn't there. He couldn't hear me or see me and I didn't really exist

until I cried because he'd flattened my big toe under his cop boot. And it stayed

that way through his divorce from my Mom. Through the onset of puberty.

Through my High School career.

So, the last day of junior year, I went home and cleaned my room. I made a

small list of belongings that I wanted to be given to charity, since I had no real

friends to speak of, and then I wrote a little letter to my Dad telling him I was

sorry in advance for the mess.

Here's where things start to get a little hairy. Literally.

I was in the bathtub, taking deep breaths and talking out the last dialogue I'd

ever have with my subconscious. The water was super hot and I noticed that it

was making my legs really, really pink. Which drew my attention to my calves

and how damn hairy they were. I got to thinking that maybe I shouldn't leave the

Earth with hairy as hell legs, being that I wasn't sure if it would be open

casket…and if that was a full body thing or not.

Like, would my dad, Charlie, in all his mustacheo'd glory, gaze down at my pale

visage and cry because, not only had he lost his daughter, but he also couldn't

bury her in a short skirt or sundress? It's the constant rambling thoughts in my

head that get me in the most trouble, you see. I'm always getting distracted by

my internal debates and whatnot; arguing with myself over useless shit and

getting caught up in details that legitimately don't matter.

That's how I screwed up my own suicide. I got distracted by the thought of

wearing an Amish style, floor-length dress in a casket.

So, I went to town on shaving my legs. Then higher, because, let's face it: if I

was gonna start something, I was gonna finish it. That was not the time to do

things half-assed, you know?

Which is when I got all tangled up with my head bent down next to my never-

used-vagina.

And I fell.

Head first into the side of the porcelain tub.

With my razor in my hand, a tub full of hairy soap water, and a suicide note on

my nightstand.

I woke up with a bandage on my head, a tiny ass flashlight in my eye, and my

hands restrained on the gurney by my side.

And so was my introduction to the Washington Hospital suicide watch group thing

I was in now. I'd been poked and prodded and medicated to almost zombie status

before they moved me down a grey hallway, across taupe floors, behind silver

metal doors and onto a twin sized cot with starched white sheets; sharing a room

with another failed suicide attempt in the form of a Nordic Ice Queen who

suffered from bulimia and a rough case of narcissism.

Like I said, I've been here less than two weeks. But I'm getting used to it, I

suppose.

At this moment, the toilet is clogged again, and I know it's because my

roommate, Rose, has just regurgitated her last 'meal', which consisted of some

sort of off putting white stuff with a fuzzy yellow thing where the side dish usually

goes. It wasn't real food, but it was ours. And we were expected to eat it,

regardless.

Rose just doesn't see the point in eating at all.

It simply requires her to throw it up later and at this point she isn't really sure

that she wants to put forth the effort.

I had called her a Real Life Barbie Doll inside my mind one day, because she's

ridiculously tall and blonde and perfect…and Edward had mumbled under his

breath that I was being stupid or something like that.

And I'd gotten up the courage to ask him, "Did you say something, Edward?"

To which he'd kinda shrugged, because he didn't like to move too much… on

account of him thinking that he was actually dead and a vampire or zombie or

something, which would make him really rigor mortis-y and unable to move very

well as it was. His bony shoulder had bobbed once and I'd watched from above

my knees that were pulled up to my nose as he'd looked across the table at me,

his grey-green eyes meeting mine for only the smallest of seconds. "It's

redundant to say 'Real Life Barbie'. Barbie was sculpted after a real woman. A

German prostitute."

Make that two things I've learned since I've been here.

In that small space of time I'd forgotten all about Rose while Edward was

speaking.

Because he'd looked at me like I actually existed. I'd paid no mind that he had

read my thoughts and known what I'd said without me speaking it.

That was my second day here and I'm pretty sure it was the day I started to get

a small crush on Edward. Not that he'd ever want to be with someone like me.

But, in this place? We're all the same. We're all here for the same reason.

My evidence was on my head in the form of a huge lump and green bruise.

Rose's was in her inability to eat after getting her stomach pumped of an entire

bottle of Tylenol PM. Her story was imbedded in the scabs and missing skin along

her knuckles, and the teeth marks across the tops of her fingers. The yellowed

edges of her fingernails and brittleness of her hair. The smell of bile on her breath

that permeated our small room like a horribly funky Glade Plug-In.

Edward's evidence…well, see, the thing about Edward is that he's tall. Like,

almost six and a half feet. He tried to auto-asphyxiate himself in his closet. It had

to do with the ex girlfriend, I take it. All weirdly sexual, and yet, 'confessional' at

the same time. His reminder had been the bruises around his neck that had faded

faster than any of the rest of our 'tells'.

Except, Edward had awoken under the assumption that he had actually

succeeded in killing himself and that he was, and is, at this very moment…dead. I

guess he just thinks this is Purgatory? He uses Group time as confessional. We

just listen. It's what we're here for. What the hell else are we gonna do?

Then there's Alice, an almost six foot tall behemoth, who isn't massive in weight

or anything, but she's certainly not four foot nothing and seventy pounds like her

Reverse Body Dysmorphic Syndrome would lead her to believe. She walks around

all the time talking about how tiny she is and we all just have to nod our heads

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