I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. As much as I wanted to get out of that room, that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m ready to go home. The ride home is eerily silent. I guess there’s not much to talk about; not much that matters, anyways. As we pull into the driveway my stomach churns. I don’t want to be here.
Amelia has been bending over backwards for me ever since the hospital released me. She opens my door and begins to help me up out of my seat.
“I got it, Mel,” I say, as nicely as I can. Amelia releases me, and begins to grab my things from the back seat.
The truth is, I do appreciate her help. I’ve been feeling weak since I woke up in the hospital. But admitting that I need help only proves that what I did was serious, and it had consequences. So, for now, I’ll just pretend like I don’t secretly crave help.
Once I’m ready, we walk up the drive way together. Amelia opens the front door, and steps inside. It feels like I’m stepping into a terrible, terrible dream. I can hear footsteps coming from upstairs, and for a moment, I think that someone might have broken into our house. I look up to see someone at the top of the right staircase. She has blond wavy hair, and big brown eyes. She looks sad; I realize she’s me.
I watch her-me-cross the hallway, and disappear down the hallway. I decide to follow. I make my way up the left staircase, and turn down the hallway which she disappeared too. As I follow, she opens the door to my parent’s bedroom, and disappears through the doorway.
I’m confused, at first. Why am I going in there? Reluctantly, I enter the room, to see her opening the safe. It should be hidden by a picture frame, but that frame now lays on the floor. She turns around, her cheeks puffy, and swollen. She’s crying. Without even looking at me, she crosses the room, gun in her hand. Quickly, I follow her out of the room, and back down the hallway. I know where she’s headed.
I don’t want to go there with her. I don’t want to follow, but a part of me feels like I have to. She leads me back to my bedroom. I pause just outside the doorway, and take a deep breath in. I have to face it. I have to. I open the door and step inside. My eyes immediately shift to the floor: There she is, sitting on her butt. Gun in her hands, her hands trembling.
That’s when I see Lucas, standing in front of her. They’re speaking but I can’t hear them; it’s like their voices have been put on mute.
Suddenly, she lifts her trembling hand and places the gun to her temple, and at the same time, Lucas lunges for her. That’s when everything disappears. I squint my eyes shut and shake my head for a moment.
I don’t want to remember. I just want to forget.
“You okay?”
I open my eyes and turn back towards the doorway. Amelia is standing in the hallway, just outside of my room.
“Yeah,” I say. I shake my head a little, to get the thought out of my head. “It just feels weird, being back here...”
Amelia nods, but she doesn’t say anything. A silence falls over us, and I wonder if she went somewhere, too, the way I just did. I wonder if she’s back at school, receiving a call from Mom, or Dad, saying that her little sister is on her way to the hospital, and hopefully not the morgue.
“Um, I’m supposed to stay with you,” Amelia says. “You’re not allowed to be by yourself, remember?”
I nod. “I was just going to take a nap,” I say. I wasn’t planning on it, but I realize now that I’m exhausted.
“Okay,” Amelia says. She crosses my bedroom, and takes a seat at the desk next to my bed. She opens up her laptop and begins to type. I didn’t notice it there before, but it has probably been sitting there for days. I guess she had time to plan this all out.
I watch her for a moment, her fingers flying across the keyboard, typing away. Then, I pull the covers down from the top of my bed, and crawl inside. I pull the blankets all the way up to my ears, and close my eyes. The room is silent, except for the faint pat, pat, pat, of the keys on Amelia’s laptop. Coming back home made me realize how terrifying this must have been for everyone.
Amelia, Mia, and Caden must have had a heart attack once they realized what was going on. I already know how scared Lucas was, considering he was the one who found me.
What I did had consequences.
Now, I’m going to have to face those consequences.
* * *
“Kalani?!”
I jolt awake, and sit straight up. My heart is racing. I can hear footsteps pounding like thunder against the floor. Amelia is still typing away at her computer. My door opens, to reveal my mom. She stares at me for a moment, before finally crossing the room and sitting down on the edge of my bed.
“We need to talk,” She says. Anxiety begins to pinch at my throat. What did I do?
“I should have done this a long time ago,” my mom begins. “But... I think I need to take your razor away...”
“What?” I ask, flustered for a moment.
“Mom, no!”
“I need to, Kalani,” she says. “I should’ve taken it away when I first found the cuts on your arms.”
She stands from her seat on my bed and crosses the room to where my bathroom is. Throwing the covers off of me, I jump out of bed as quickly as I possibly can.
“Mom, please!” I shout, entering the bathroom. She already has the razor in her hand.
“Kalani, don’t!” My mom shouts. I fall silent.
“You need to realize that your actions have consequences!” She yells. “I will not just let you get away with these things any longer! I’m officially getting rid of anything that can harm you, got it?” My mom says.
She begins to raid through my bathroom shelves. From my bathroom shelves to under the sink, she pulls out the curling iron and straightener, and sets them both on top of the bathroom counter, next to the blow dryer. She then finds my mascara, and sets it next to the razor.
“Why are you taking my mascara?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t put it past you to poke your eye out with that thing.” She says.
I roll my eyes, but don’t say anything.
My mom continues her search through my bathroom, and my bedroom: collecting all of my pencils and belts.
“How am I supposed to do any of my homework?” I ask.
“You’ll be doing online school work this week, remember? You don’t need pencils right now. You’ll get them back when you go back to school.” She continues her searching, now through my drawers and under my bed.
“Mom, this is a little excessive, don’t you think?” I say.
“Not after you tried to kill yourself, Kalani,” she says. We both fall silent, and Amelia stops typing on her laptop.
My mom stands from her hunched over position to peer under my bed. All she can do is stare at me for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” She says. “I just... I don’t trust you anymore, Kalani... Not after what you did.” She takes a few steps towards me, then stops.
“You’re going to have to earn my trust back. That’s just a consequence you’re going to have to face, until then.”
My mom grabs her new collection of potentially dangerous items, and leaves without another word.
“She’s right,” Amelia says. I turn to face her, but she’s still facing her laptop.
“Trust is earned, Kalani.” She begins typing again, without saying anything.
I let out a sigh, and fall back onto my bed.
Damn consequences.
Nineteen
I never thought I would say it, but I’m looking forward to my first group therapy session. The past week has been nothing but miserable. All I’ve done is catch up on all of the school work I’ve missed since the incident. I haven’t had one moment of time to myself. Amelia stayed with me the entire week, because she can do most of her schoolwork online, and everyone else either had to work, or had school.
And I don’t mean she just stayed in my room. Whenever I went to shower, she sat on the bathroom floor and waited for me to be done. And when I was done, she sat r
ight outside the bathroom door-and left it open. I’m beginning to hate house arrest. I also haven’t been allowed to leave the house. Basically, for the next week, the only place I’m allowed to go is the counseling center.
Then after this week, I’m only allowed to go to school, and the counseling center. Fantastic. Today, since it’s Saturday, Mia will be driving me to group therapy. I can’t say that I’m thrilled to be attending therapy sessions, but at least I get to leave the house for once in my life.
“Why can’t I just drive myself?” I ask, as we walk toward Mia’s bright red Subaru which is parallel parked next to the side walk.
“Mom doesn’t trust you to drive anywhere by yourself,” Mia explains. “Besides, your motor skills are still slow. It’s not safe for you to be driving yet.”
I groan, but open the door to her car anyways. We drive for about twenty minutes, before finally pulling into the parking lot of a giant building. This particular building, is almost completely made of glass. The front door is made of glass, and the entire front wall of the building is just one giant window.
The sign on the front of the building reads:
Counseling Center
Open 7 am-9 pm
7 Days a Week
“I’ll just wait here,” Mia says. She parks the car and waits for me to get out. But I can’t get out. I feel like I’m glued to my seat.
“Kalani, you have to do this,” Mia says. “They can help you. You need help.” I look over at her. Her brown eyes are insistent.
“I don’t know how to talk to these people,” I shake my head. “I don’t know how to talk to anyone.”
“I know that this is hard-”
“No, you don’t!” I interrupt. “Nobody understands.”
“Okay,” Mia says, reluctantly. “You’re right. I don’t understand. But these people do.
They have been exactly where you are now, so wouldn’t you want to hear what they have to say? Just... Please go inside. And just listen,” Mia says. “You don’t even have to speak today, if you don’t want to. Just please listen to these people. They can help you.”
For a moment I just sit there, not saying anything. Finally, I open the car door, and step outside. I close it shut, and walk through the parking lot. I’m angry. I’m angry that I’m here. I’m angry that it’s come to this... I pull open the glass door to the building and step inside. The first thing that comes to mind is light. White tile floors, glass walls from ceiling to floor, white everything.
The room is bright, thanks to the giant glass windows. In the center of the room are two white leather couches, two white love seats, and a glass table right in the middle of them. There are multiple doors throughout the room, which probably lead to the one-on-one session rooms. Whatever isn’t glass, is white-including the doors.
It’s definitely not what I expected. I guess I expected a plain, small room with a circle of chairs in the middle where people shared their feelings. But this? This seems comfortable. There are a few people already sitting on the couches at the center of the room, chatting quietly with each other.
I’m about to make a run for the exit, when a woman spots me. She stands from her place on one of the couches, and makes her way over to me. The light shines against her dark brown skin and bright green eyes glisten-beautiful. Her hair is dark brown, and falls just above her shoulders in curly locks.
She’s beautiful.
“Hello,” the woman says. Her voice is deep and rich, like honey. “My name is Evelyn. Are you new?”
“Yes. My name is Kalani,” I practically have to choke the words out of my mouth.
Evelyn places my hand between both of hers and smiles.
“It’s nice to meet you, Kalani,” she says. “Are you here for group therapy, today?” I nod.
“Please, come sit,” Evelyn smiles. “We’re going to start in just a couple of minutes.”
She releases my hand, and leads me over to the set of couches. There’s a spot available on one of the single couches, so I take it before anyone else can. I sit in silence as more people begin to trickle in and find a seat. I take it that group sessions only consist of a few people per group. Because no more than eight people can fit in this seating area.
“Now that everyone is here, let’s begin,” Evelyn says. She takes a seat next to me, and a silence falls over the group.
“I see a few familiar faces, and a few new faces,” she begins. “So, I’ll start. This counseling center focuses on treating not only your mental health, but you , as well. You are not your mental illness. So, we want to help you, not just the illness. We believe that comfort is priority. Sitting in a small dark room in uncomfortable chairs, doesn’t make you want to open up, does it?” Evelyn says.
“So, we created this building to give everyone a chance to find comfort. The light seeping in through the glass walls provides the feeling of being close to nature, and a sofa is much more comfortable than a plastic chair. This way, maybe the physical comfort of being here, will put your mind at ease as well, and make you comfortable enough to share your experiences with us.”
Another silence falls over the group, before Evelyn speaks again.
“This is a safe place,” she begins. “You can talk about whatever you want to; your day at school, or work, or home. How you felt when you did something or said something. You can talk about whatever you are most comfortable with. I will not force you to speak if you don’t want to. So, who would like to begin?” She asks.
A girl about my age raises her hand. Her long dark hair is twisted into a braid which falls along her spine. “Samantha” Evelyn smiles. “Remember how we start? State your name, your age, and why you’re here.”
“My name is Samantha,” the girl begins. “I’m eighteen years old, and I’m here because I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety.” Samantha pauses before beginning again.
“A couple of days ago, I told my mom that I was having suicidal thoughts. I told her because suicidal thoughts are a possible symptom of the medication that I’m on. She was happy that I told her,” she says. “Because now we can talk to my doctor about changing my medication so that I can get better. I guess I just wanted to share because it’s important to talk to your parents. Or your friends. Or anyone. No matter how scared you are to talk to someone, they’ll understand, and they’ll want to help you. My mom did.”
“Thank you for sharing, Samantha,” Evelyn says. “I’m glad that you understand the importance of opening up.”
Samantha smiles and nods.
“Would anyone like to elaborate on that?” Evelyn asks.
My hand shoots up to the sky before I can think twice.
“Yes, Kalani?” Evelyn asks. I immediately regret my decision because now I have to speak. I can already feel anxiety pinching at my throat.
“I guess...” I begin. I feel like I could throw up.
“I guess I just don’t understand how you were able to open up about your depression.” Everyone turns their head from me to Samantha.
“It was hard,” Samantha begins. “Because for a while I felt like a freak; like something was wrong with me for being sad, when there was no reason for me to be sad. But then I realized that if my family truly loved me, they would support me no matter what. They would help me.”
Evelyn smiles, and I can see that everyone is nodding to her words. Why has everybody else figured this out before me?
“Would you like to share, Kalani?” Evelyn says. Everyone turns their attention back to me.
“You came here for a reason, right?” She asks. “Please, share.”
A part of me wants to get up and run far away from this place so that nobody can see me anymore. I can feel the anxiety again, threatening to strangle me.
But a bigger part of me-the scared part of me-wants to stay; I know I need help, and for too long, I’ve let this scared side of me control me. I can’t let it control me anymore; because that’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. I have to be br
ave.
“Um,” I begin. I attempt to swallow my anxiety but it doesn’t seem to work. Push,
Kalani. Push through.
“My name is Kalani, I’m seventeen years old,” I choke out. Push through.
“And I’m here... Because I tried to commit suicide...” I can hear people gasping. When I look up, people are covering their mouths in shock.
“I had a normal life before I got depressed, and anxiety consumed me...” I begin. “Until recently, I started to get bullied; online, and at school. It got to the point where I started cutting myself,” I roll up the sleeves on my shirt to reveal the cuts on my arms.
“I had a hard time with the whole opening up deal,” I say. “I felt like a freak, like Samantha said, because I had no reason to be sad, and because I gave myself these awful scars that are never going to go away... I felt like nobody cared about whether I lived or died, and after a while... I guess I stopped caring, too.”
A silence falls over the group. I can feel eyes all over my arms, so I roll my sleeves back down.
“Would anyone like to elaborate on that?” Evelyn asks.
“I think you’re wrong,” someone blurts out. Everybody’s head turns to a boy sitting by himself on a single couch. His dark brown hair is scruffy like he has not brushed through it in God knows how long. His skin is olive, and his jawline is sharp.
“I’m sorry?” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
“I think you’re wrong,” he says again. “You had a reason to feel sad; you felt shut out from the rest of the world. And you only felt like a freak because they made you feel like a freak. You’re also wrong in the sense that nobody cared about you. People did care about you. And you should care about yourself, too.”
Everybody in the group is nodding along to what he’s saying, but I find myself baffled.
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