Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Alex was severely depressed. No one ever knew. Not her closest friends or her family. At least, that’s what I had thought. I think she had too much pride to see a therapist. It would’ve been too embarrassing for her to seek professional help. She hid it all so well. Concealed the sorrow in her bloodshot eyes underneath thick layers of mascara and the never ending pain behind a fake smile and her mother’s ruby red lipstick.

The first time I laid my eyes on her, I automatically assumed she was a b***h. She was one of the popular girls. The gossip of the halls. I know it’s not morally right or whatever to judge a person based on their looks, but she almost placed those judgements on herself. She was pretty, I admit, but when a girl walks around school with clothes that are two sizes too small and a face plastered with makeup, it’s difficult not to criticize her.

Sophomore year, Alex and I sat next to each other in our Independent Living class. It was a requirement for graduation, otherwise there’s no way in hell either of us would’ve been caught dead taking that class. Basically, it taught me things that weren’t actually applicable to my life. Things that I’d end up forgetting by the time they’d actually be useful. I didn’t care if I knew how to do my own taxes or create a resume.

On the first day of class, the teacher insisted that we participate in an icebreaker. To me, those activities are absolutely pointless. No one took them seriously. At least I didn’t. Honestly, those meaningless games are nothing more than an excuse for lazy teachers to get paid without actually putting in any effort. The first question was what we aspired to be when we were older. God, I felt like I was back in the fourth grade. What a f*****g joke. Consequently, I refused to write an answer.

Alex raised her hand and volunteered to share first.

“Excellent!” claimed Mr. Reynolds in his peppy voice. I found him rather annoying with his ugly collared shirt and a goddamn polka dot bow tie. Who the hell did he think he was? Honestly it was comical, and to this day I have no clue how I kept it together all semester.

Alex proceeded to stand up, which was completely unnecessary, adjusted her dress and jean jacket, cleared her throat and took a deep breath. She already irritated me. Inspecting her classmates with a condescending expression on her face, Alex stated in a clear, concise voice, “I aspire to be an actress on Broadway.” Everyone stared at her as though she said she wanted to cure cancer. I hated how people looked at her with such dazzling admiration. She wasn’t any different from anyone else.

“What a wonderful ambition Alexandra!” She’d never make it on Broadway, I thought to myself. “Charlotte, you’re next!” probed Mr. Reynolds staring directly at me with that aggravating smile across his lips. The class shifted their attention on to their next victim. I looked at the pathetic faces of the people in the room. No one cared even the slightest. Not even Mr. Reynolds, but he’d never admit it.

“Nothing,” I responded, crossing my arms and slumping down further in my chair. Most of my classmates looked annoyed. Probably thinking for God’s sake it’s a game, just play along. But I didn’t care what they thought about me. I was pleased with my answer. At least I spoke the truth.

“Nothing? There must be something!” he offered cheerfully. I wanted to wipe that stupid grin off of his face. His personality was far too enthusiastic for my liking. I always hated optimistic people. Maybe if the world experienced a little more disappointment, they’d understand my pessimism. Instead of answering, I crumpled up my slip of paper and threw it on the floor. I wasn’t searching for attention from the others. I just didn’t have any interest in this pointless game.

“Charlotte, pick up your paper,” he commanded. The tone of his voice was more serious this time. Stern even. In fact, his entire demeanor had changed. I guess he didn’t tolerate misbehavior. But, honestly, I still didn’t care. His attitude only infuriated me more. Reaching down, I picked up the crumpled piece of paper and held it in my hand.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” he exclaimed, smiling at me once again. “Now, would you like to try again? I’m sure your classmates would love to hear your dreams!” I heard some laughing but I couldn’t decipher if it was actually happening or if the voices were just the ones up in my head. I looked around the room at their uninterested faces. No one gave a damn about what I said.

I scowled at him. “Of course,” I muttered sarcastically. Standing up, I unfolded the crumpled paper and stared at its bare complexion. I could’ve been considerate and made up some bullshit response, but I decided against it and ripped the paper symmetrically in half, and then again in fourths all while staring into his dark eyes. My classmates shifted their eyes back and forth between Mr. Reynolds and myself. Disbelief flooded the atmosphere, but I was too preoccupied with my own self-gratifying actions to wonder about all of the harsh thoughts they were most likely thinking about me. I proceeded to throw it on the ground, watching the pieces flutter to the cheap tile like leaves falling in the midst of October. The next thing I knew, I was being kicked out of that classroom and sent to detention. Great start to my sophomore year. As I aimlessly wandered down the hall, I couldn’t stop laughing at the thought of Alex Summers dreamed of becoming an actress. What a joke, I thought.

…

Instead of hiking back the mile to Caleb’s house, I went to see Alex. As sad as it sounds, her depression was a blessing to me. We exchanged numbers on the first day of class to keep up with due dates and homework assignments. I really only wanted her number to copy her homework, but I didn’t say that. For some reason, she used to send me a text and ask me how I was doing or tell me that she was thinking about me. We had only just met, and I wouldn’t exactly label us as friends. I assumed she was just clingy or wanted attention. Like she wanted people to think she cared about them more than she actually did. I debated blocking her number, but I thought that would just make class even more awkward. I never really understood why she did that, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late.

As I walked in the direction of her home, I thought about Noah. I dissected our relationship in my mind. Remembered the good times and the bad. When I met him, I made it incredibly clear that I only wanted a friendship. He knew that, and he respected it. And why would he even want anything more than that after what had happened? But either way, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had been leading him on this whole time? Accepting endless invitations to go on another walk, spending many hopeless nights sleeping in his bed. Isn’t that what friends do? They take care for each other. Comfort one another in hard times. But while I was learning to love myself, was he learning to love me as well? No. I didn’t want to believe that all the rumble in my head was even possibly true. I felt like I was going to faint or throw up or something. I couldn’t stand this anymore, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t prevent the tears from falling down my face.

I watched a blue Mercedes drive by. It made me think of Alex.  Her father bought her one for her sixteenth birthday. It was his way of showing her that he cared. That’s how it’s always been. He’d shower her in gifts when all she needed was affection. Everyone told her how lucky she was, how generous her father was. She smiled at them. It wasn’t until much later that I learned how much she cried that night. Isn’t it funny how everyone craved her life when the only thing she ever really wanted was to escape it?

I remember that day of class so vividly. Monday, October fourth. I remember Alex walking through the door carrying sixteen pretty pink balloons that her boyfriend had so graciously given her. Then, I noticed the long sleeved purple dress that fit her thin figure perfectly and a pair of sandals that were just the perfect dose of casual and classy. Her blue eyes like sapphire, and her bleach blonde hair was tied back perfectly with a few loose curls flowing down each side of her face. A golden radiance seemed to have formed around her and I wondered if anyone else could see what I was seeing. She appeared angelic and I couldn’t help but stare.

Whenever it was someone’s birthday in Independent living class, Mr. Reynolds would call him or her to the front of the class to sit on a stool while everyone sang happy birthday. Tradition didn’t fail to repeat itself that day as Alex was called to the front and the chorus of her classmates sang. I didn’t participate. Shocker. 

Her cheeks became flushed, and she looked to the ground. What a show she put on. Acting all embarrassed when everyone knew she worshipped the attention.

“Any plans for tonight?” asked Mr. Reynolds following the song.

 “I’m visiting my mother tonight and then we’re having dinner on the river in Charleston,” she responded in a monotonous voice. I found her voice strange, but I didn’t question the validity of this statement. There was no reason to because technically it was true. Only I didn’t know that her mother was dead, and that a visit meant staring at her grave in the cold October air. Some part of me had assumed that dinner would consist of more than biting at her nails. And I guess I didn’t grasp that being out on the river in Charleston involved standing atop of the old Ravenel Bridge surveying the ripples in the water, where the only conversation taking place was the unstoppable bickering in her mind. It tormented her. Hours she stood there under the moonlit sky. Occasionally, the desolate wind would graze against her back, but there was no feeling in her numb body. Obscurity was all she’d ever known and before she even knew, her fate had been sealed. That’s when it happened. In the midst of her confliction about the ambiguous simulation of her so called life, she jumped. Her slender figure weightless in the wind. The cold October wind that now gives me goosebumps thinking about it. Her faded blue eyes bolted shut as though this was all just a dream. As though her life had been nothing but an act. A pathetic, useless act. Her body seemed to remain still in the air for hours although the fall couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds. Somehow, I know that this was the most content she had ever been in her entire life.

To my luck, the graveyard was empty this morning. I searched among the headstones until I came across the name Alex Marie Summers printed in all caps across a tall memorial. October 4, 1996"October 4, 2012. This was the first time since her death that I had actually visited her grave. I regretted not visiting sooner, but I couldn’t find the courage to face her again. Long overdue, here I was. Better late than never, I suppose.

Alex’s funeral was the Sunday following her death. I dressed in a simple black dress and a gray cardigan. Rain poured on the rooftop of the funeral home as well as in the hearts of its guests. Scattered around the room were posters filled with pictures of her. I strolled throughout the room, examining photos from her childhood. There she stood with her feet embedded in her little pink ballet shoes and an unforgettable smile on her face. I imagined her pirouetting on the hardwood floor in the narrow room, her tutu following her every movement. Next, I gazed upon a picture of her and her mother. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Freckles lined her young face, and her mother held her in her frail arms with a smile stretching from cheek to cheek. Later, I found out her mother had been diagnosed with cancer when Alex was eleven, put up one hell of a fight, and unfortunately passed away the following year. I empathized with Alex. I knew what it was like growing up without a mother. I knew the pain of having no one to rub your back when you were sick or hug you when you were crying. I understood it all. And I couldn’t stop wishing that I had told her that I knew. Maybe then she wouldn’t have felt so alone in this Godforsaken world.

She told me once that she was depressed. I didn’t think she had ever told anyone before. And I foolishly let it slip my mind. I always wondered why she only ever wore long sleeves. I later realized she was trying to hide all the memories of the scars imprinted on her body. But those sleeves were only a temporary solution. Because when she went home every night, she had to face those scars in the mirror. Nothing but a simple reminder of the depression gnawing and biting at her beautiful soul. Sadly those cuts on her wrists were no mistake, but no one cared enough to save her from this self-hate.

I glanced around the room, but my eyes locked on her father, sitting by himself weeping at the loss of his precious baby. I had seen him before a few times. Once at a high school football game. He was there with Alex, and I caught him staring at me. Another time at the grocery store. I was picking up a few things for my grandmother, and our eyes locked in the produce aisle. He always looked pale as a ghost. I thought he was always just a creep, but now I pitied him. He had lost one of the last surviving pieces of his heart. All that remained was his three year old daughter who sat silently in a chair beside him. I couldn’t help but feel as though it was all my fault. If I had given her even a moment of my time, would she still be breathing today?

He glanced up from his corner and our eyes locked. His face turned white like it had in the past. He stood for a moment and just stared at me. This unsettling feeling fanned from one end of the funeral home to the other. As everyone conversed and consoled one another, two strangers gazed upon each other. Time stood still for a moment as the murmurs of everyone else seemed to fade and the image of his eyes kept getting bigger and bigger. He stared at me like he had known what I had done. Like he had known that I had killed his baby girl. And all at once, tears flooded my eyes and I needed to escape. I couldn’t stand in that room anymore, surrounded by images of the girl I had never even known. Never even given a chance. Immediately, I ran towards the door, refusing to remember Alex as anything but the girl with the wild dream. Just as I had taken my first step out into the rain, I heard him shouting behind me. I turned around finding Alex’s boyfriend standing before me. I recognized him from school, but I couldn’t recall his name.

“You’re Charlotte, right?” he asked. His eyes were red. I thought he might have been smoking weed or something.

“Yes,” I replied, attempting to hold back the tears.

“I’m Noah,” he claimed, grabbing my hand tightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Reviews

[Mifa]

Exposition? Yes. But I really enjoyed this chapter a lot. I think it could double as a standalone short story if ever you need to maybe enter a competition or something. I enjoyed the twist at the end. You're now beginning to show, even though there's still a lot of exposition, and sudden time jumps; but there's now a coherence to the tale that really gives it that thrill and intrigue.

I must say, you captured the lackluster attitude of the character's refusal to relate to a friend with such banality. And you also channeled the regret she felt at the aftermath of Alex's death. I enjoyed just how the guilt crawled up on her instead of seeming so sudden. It was beautifully crafted.

Also, I think you should work towards your strengths, one of which is the way you described the suicide of Alex. I enjoyed how what seemed like a routine visit to her mother's grave was beautiful crafted to allow us experience her suicide and get some sense of respite in the knowledge that even at the dreariest moment, she at least felt the most content.

All in all, a great read. I am onto the next chapter. Keep writing.

[Sarah]

I realize this chapter is a bit wordy at times and a lot of telling rather than showing, but introducing Alex required a lot of background information. I needed to connect her story to that of Charlie's. I really appreciate your comments because I really tried to capture the emotion and effect that Alex's death left on the people she left behind, especially Charlie. Again, thank you for the review.

[Mifa]

You're welcome.

[Rebecca]

I liked the metaphor for fake beauty in describing Alex. Go deeper into who Alex really is beneath her mask.
This chapter had a strong narrative voice. one thing is, self harm is not meant as suicide. Its actually the opposite, it makes life liveable.

[Splatman73]

Though there's a lot of exposition, I am enjoying learning about Charlotte.

[wordman]

and the saga continues,most depressed people do not share there feelings,it seems these are the ones
that consider suicide..it is getting more interesting as i read

[Sarah]

I'm glad you're enjoying it!

[Christopher Miller]

High school was some time ago for me, but this brought the atmosphere right back. I mean that internally, such as the disproportionate anger over details such as a stupid bow tie, and externally, such as being forced to participate in things that really were shallow and stupid. This reminded me of a particular instance, actually, where these guest speakers were trying to establish rapport and has us all name our celebrity dream date. I had no desire to date any celebrity... I don't remember what I said but I do remember they picked one for me, who I'd never heard of, and I said fine. I forgot all about that until now.
I appreciate the portrayal of her guilt over Alex's suicide, and her reflection on the attitude she'd had toward her. They are very realistic.
The timeline is becoming easier to follow, and I am curious to see what Alex has told Noah about her.

[Sarah]

Thank you for the review. High school is a tricky time for anyone who sees themselves as an outsider. It felt like most of the things they made us do had no real purpose and I tried to incorporate those emotions into my writing.

[Lorry]

Sadly, first impressions still count for something, and in this day and age, we do jump to conclusions by such things as how people look, or how they don't. The most beautiful of people can also be truly ugly, just as those who don't see their own beauty, shine within the right eyes and are the most interesting and beautiful minds to be involved in.
I love the "What do you want to be when you grow up", as the story says, getting paid to be there and not much else. Plus, I am like four dozen years old and I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, as just being me doesn't seem to be a satisfactory answer to some.
What is it with teachers and bow ties? At least one in every school. I think they must think it makes them look scholarly, when in actual fact, they look anything but someone who can be taken seriously.
I think I would have done the same thing with the paper too. I have often thought that they make you decide your life choices at an age when everything is in chaos and we live in the bubble of intensity that growing as a person creates. I don't know the answer, but surely noting or don't know are as valid an answer as any. As I mentioned, I still don't know. I just know it's not what I'm doing now.
You can't buy love, even with cars. I really like how you say that, that what looks like a great life to one only sees the veneer that is visible on the surface. We wish for what others have, but we can't pick and choose the best bits, sadly.
And you just go on to prove my point, Alex' life wasn't the picture perfect portrait others saw, it was a hidden tragedy, just like all of the other unspoken cries.
Lost the last surviving piece of his heart...What a heart achingly beautiful description.
This chapter has opened up the story so much more, now that we are getting glimpses of the people and the world surrounding Charlotte. Starting to pick pace and fill in the blanks, just as any good tale told should. Really enjoying this, superb stuff. :)

[Sarah]

Thank you so much for you review. I hadn't know it when I wrote this, but I agree now that this chapter does do it's job in moving the story forward and showing the reader something i have not yet shown. It comes as a contrast to the rest of the story, yet it fits in perfectly.

[Lorry]

Yeah, sometimes when writing, the pen takes on a mind of its own. We can only write what it wants us to write after all :)