I don’t know how to begin. The awful awfulness sets into my brain and it hurts to think about it. Dr. Zimbalist gave me a new diary today during our first session of the day, the one where I’m alone. Mom burned my diary. It wasn’t that it was risqué or anything. It was simply my last entry and the awful awfulness.
Chad—he—I woke up on May 26 to find that school had been cancelled. Police tape lined the doors to the large brick building I call school. A sign said they were closed until further notice. I felt a pit in my stomach. I asked the chick next to me what happened. She shrugged and then a football player said something happened to one of the teachers. It was gruesome and some art teacher he didn’t know anything about.
I don’t remember anything after that. My mom said I fainted and the school called her. I called her “mommy” and burst into tears. When she got me home I was inconsolable. I told her about my conversation with Chad. I screamed and screamed to her that I was only kidding. She hugged me. I don’t remember the last time she’d hugged me. It only made me cry more. I don’t remember the last time she listened to me.
She told me I never have to go back to school but I was never seeing Chad again. My parents had a long conversation about what to do with me. I took the phone receiver and left it off the hook. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t know what to say. Someone knocked on the door. I shrieked that I didn’t want to talk to him. My mother said she’d take care of it but I had to pack my bags.
I peeked out the window and saw her tell him he wasn’t welcome at my home anymore. He needed to leave. He tried to make a scene but no one messes with my mom. She took him by the arm and said something in a really low voice. I don’t know what it was but he looked up at my window. I shut the curtain. I never want to see him again.
Dad dropped me off here at the sanatorium after spending the night in three hours away from Chicago. I’d fallen asleep after crying the whole day. But I dreamed of Mrs. Buchannan being cut up in a thousand pieces at the hand of Chad. Three times I woke up screaming. It took me three weeks before I could sleep all the way through the night even with their sleeping pills.
I asked Dr. Zimbalist when I can see my parents again—I want to see them for the Fourth. She asked me didn’t I know. Know what? My parents moved. My dad has a new job. My mom is selling the house. They can’t come yet.
I didn’t make it to group today. I stayed in my room and cried.
~Raging and quivering female mass of hormones and tosser of Dark Side Cookies™ (trade marked by Etoile)