By Indeaki Rune
The first time a little girl goes to school, is perhaps one of the most exciting times. I remember being slightly nervous and yet feeling quite joyful, so excited to grow up. Most of us probably tugged on our mothers hands to try and get to school faster. School can be nice.
Middle school was not as fun. I remember the girls arriving all in one line, all preppy and acting like they own the school. It was terrifying and not as fun as elementary school was. I watched carefully, as social structures were built and torn down. I watched all the girls pull away from each other and drift towards the fancied boys. The teachers pretended not to notice while the boys become exuberant, or exuberant little rascals. It’s the fact that no one wants to see, we become miserable in middle school and that transfers into high school.
Even as I write this now, a Senior about to graduate in six months, I can see the changes middle school has brought to us. Some of us never fully recover.
I watch the people drift past us, eyeing us up. Do they know? No. I don’t think they do.
My best friend Susie Smith killed herself last week. I’m not surprised. Susie didn’t like living as much as the rest of us. I’ve become more of a shadow now, dripping in her fame. Susie Smith best friend, not myself. Not my own person. When people see me they think of my dead best friend, not of me. I am mad at Susie for that.
The cafeteria is full today with kids lined up patiently to get their meals, or sitting all in little rows at their little tables. Told what to do and when. I am not invited to sit down at any of these little tables. I am scrutinized as I pass by them all. Food is no longer something I care for, neither are the looks I get. People think they’re sly, but I see them, and they are nowhere as sly as I.
The classroom is silent as I enter, skirt billowing at the knees and smelling of smoke. They say nothing but I know what they’re thinking. Something rude probably. I stare intently at them, making them uncomfortable, because I know. I know what they’re thinking.
The front of the class is reserved for nerds, and the back for loud people. I am neither.
After class my teacher pulls me aside, I didn’t absorb anything that had been said in his lecturing. He knows that. He knows that I am not concerned with any punishment he might give. His intellect scares me but I guess that is only natural. He asks me if I am good and how I’ve been holding up. “Do you feel like you will get better soon?” I don’t say anything. I just leave, which I know would seem rude usually but I can’t be bothered to talk anymore. Those questions bother me, he’s started asking them over and over again.
The hallways are long and even though I walk faster, it gets me nowhere. I shiver as they watch me, the rooms gray and nothing in them. The chairs and tables are soft as I caress them, my short nails cracked.
Sometimes people still call me Susie. I don’t mind. I respond and pretend like maybe I am Susie. They always regard me strangely after that. They say if I feel like I will do something rash I should tell someone, I think they are the ones who believe I am Susie. That frightens me.
Today as I get up from my bed, I can tell something is wrong. My pills by the side of my bed are a different color. The green they used to be are now orange. I think someone is trying to poison me. I am confused, I’m just a senior at a boarding school. I don’t need someone to kill me.
It takes hours to get out of bed, and it takes hours to fall asleep. I go insane watching my walls and my bed and my desk and chair. I don’t move on weekends. The one window in my room is much too interesting. I think sometimes I can hear birds from my window, the bars on tight.
Someone is knocking at my door, they have my meal. I won’t eat it though, the food always tastes strange and I can never swallow it down without thinking about Susie. I wonder what possible things she could have gone through to take her own life. I know. I know what she has been through. Or maybe I don’t, I’m not so sure anymore about anything.
Another set of knocking, this time it’s Susie’s parents. They strangely like to visit me but I’ve maybe only met them once or twice. At first they would rope their arms around me and cry out Susie’s name. I am not Susie, so who were they crying for? Did they know Susie as well as I did? I don’t think so. Susie and I used to be so close, until she began to drift. I don’t think they were crying for me either. They confuse me so much, I had to take my pills. Where were my parents?
Today I think I just won’t speak. They can figure out by themselves why I am angry with them. I do not enjoy being bullied and pushed around to believe my name is Susie. For it is not. Susie is not my name and I do not know why they continue to torment me so. I think that’s actually incredibly rude of people to do that, wouldn’t you agree?
“How are you feeling today?” no answer. ”Susie you’re going to have to answer us at some point. What you’ve been through is very traumatic but you won’t get any better by staying silent. You want to get better don’t you?” No answer. He sighs and starts packing away his papers. I’m not quite sure what he has written on them, but they don’t interest me anyway so what does it matter.
The same questions on Monday. Who is this man who feels like he has the right to question and use Susie’s name. He calls me that so surely, perhaps I look like her. I don’t have any of her pictures though, only the broad mirror that I’ve covered up. Every time I look in it, I feel like I understand her more and more, why she tried to end her life. I grow angry and say ”I do not appreciate being called that.” He looks surprised and latches onto my words like a lifeline. “But you are Susie, what else do you expect us to call you?” I am positively livid, now they try convincing me I am someone I know I’m not? “I should think not! Susie was my best friend, calling me that is just rude.” An understanding dawns in his eyes. “Perhaps you are dissociating.” He gently whispers. I am not quite sure what it means but I have school soon so I start packing up. The word itches under my skin as I think about endlessly.
I stare at my mirror and I flinch as I see Susie staring back, flinching just the same. What has happened to my dear Susie? What has she done to herself?
What did I do to myself?
