Delicate - BOT ?

☆: *.☽ Cassandra ☆: *.☽

May 30, 2005

My head felt heavy, and the rest of my body felt as if it had been hit by a bus. Every muscle was coiled tight with tension, while my bones ached.

A steady beeping came from somewhere, a sterile—almost chemical—scent filled my senses. I tried to piece together what the hell was going on, and more importantly why I couldn't bring myself to open my eyes.

Panic gnawed at my gut, a sense of dread washing over me. My throat was raw and my mouth was so dry, as if I'd been deprived of water.

Open your eyes.
Come on, Cassandra, open them.

With nearly all my mental strength, I forced them open. The blinding light of cheap fluorescents taking over my vision.

"Oh my god, Tom, she's waking up," the familiar sound of my mother's voice came from somewhere close by.

"Cassandra?" My dad's voice was hoarse, as if he was after crying.

"Mam? Dad?" I forced the words out of my mouth, "what happened?"

"Oh, baby," my mam was crying, her hand connecting with mine.

Confusion was at the forefront of my mind, as I tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

And then it hit me.

The pills, the note, the gut wrenching feeling of pain.

—————————————————

"You're very lucky, Cassandra," Dr. Murphy spoke, writing rapidly on his clipboard. "The dose you took was lethal, it's a blessing you made it here on time."

Or a curse.

I understood the severity of my actions, I understood I took a lethal dose of medication. That was the whole point. I wanted to die. I didn't want to be here anymore.

And while I'm sure they knew that, and I'm sure they were setting me up with all sorts of psychological evaluations, they kept acting as if it was some sort of miracle that I was here.

But I didn't want to be. I wanted the pain to stop, I wanted the disgusting feeling of his hands on me erased forever. I wanted life to stop.

"You've damaged your liver," Dr. Murphy added. "We will get you started on a steroid to reduce inflammation as well as calcium and vitamin D supplements to help counteract the stress the steroids may put on your body."

He scribbled onto a notepad as he spoke, "I'd also like to get you back into therapy."

That I'd expected. Attempted suicide was a sure-fire way to get tossed back into therapy.

I zoned out the rest of what he said, unable to bring myself to care. Whatever he said couldn't undo the pure feeling of anhedonia inside of me.

The second he left the room, my mam turned to me, pulling me into her arms and sobbing. It was a reaction I knew would come—and part of the reason waking up was so dreadful.