Growing up, my mom strived to be more of a friend to me than a mother. She never lead me in the right directions, acting as nothing more than a listening ear when I fucked something up. Her biggest fear is her daughter telling her she isn't "cool."
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To most teenagers, my parents are their wish. To have almost zero authority growing up just because your parent doesn't know how to raise children, is like a dream to kids.
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To me, I always had a little twinge of hope, that maybe if I do something bad, it would get my parent's attention. That probably doesn't make sense to anyone else, but at the time, it made sense to me.
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Nowadays, their lenience is convenient, making it easier to speed down the dark path I'm on.
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A while ago, before I replaced crying with drugs, I used to stay awake at night, wondering if they noticed who I am. I convinced myself during that period of my life that if the two people who created me don't truly see me...then no one else will have the ability to either.
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I went from being morbidly sad and unnoticed by them, to angry and disgusted by their existence. Every time they ask, "Who's place did you sleep at?" Instead of, "Where were you all night?!"...I want to scream at them. I want to scream out, asking why they weren't worried for a single moment, not caring to send a text or try to call my phone, ensuring I'm safe.
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Instead, I pretend, like I do with everyone else. I smile and answer nicely, acting as if my feelings haven't been hurt by them for a long time.
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Just like I'm doing right now.
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"How was school, sweetheart?" My mom smiles from the kitchen, chopping vegetables as she's leaned over the island with the cutting board set perfectly straight.
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I always hated how everything in this house is always so pristine. There's never a single thing out of place, each thing having its designated spot that it must never be moved from. It appears staged, like an open house instead of a lived in, family's home.
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No, mom and dad weren't strict about cleaning up after myself as I grew up. For as long as I can remember, there's always been a house keeper working, hired to ensure that our home stays immaculate. They didn't even notice how despairing I've become.
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"Same as always..." I stay by the kitchen's entryway, dropping the hint that I don't plan on hanging out. "Boring."
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"Where's Maverick?" She looks around me, her knife stilling with a confused expression. "I can't remember the last time you came into this house without him and it's now been almost a week since he's been here." Mom rests the knife down against the board. "The poor boy went to jail and I haven't been able to give him a hug."
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"Well..." I give a shrug, glancing around. "Drug are illegal so..."
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Mom gives a scoff, going back to her chopping. "I doubt it was serious enough to put him in jail. They could've just taken it from him and let him go with a warning."
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Right, mom...that's how that works.
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"Anyway," I change the subject before I attempt to understand my mother's explanation as to why drugs aren't 'that serious.' "He'll be here soon, he had to do a few things after school."
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"Good I'm glad. I'll have dinner ready for the two of you around six."
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I nod, not leaving time for continuation or another subject change, I start for the grand staircase to get to my room.
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As soon as the door closes behind me, I drop my bag off my shoulder as I take large steps towards the bed. Placing it down, I unzip the top zipper to dig around inside.
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Before I've done anything else, I swallow a pill with a half full bottle of old soda on my nightstand. I make a face at the syrupy taste and toss it in the trash can. One day I'll actually clean this room.
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It's the one place the housekeeper doesn't touch, the one place my parents know is off limits. Most parents would laugh in their kids faces, saying they can enter their room whenever they please. Lots of people think that's wrong too.
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But if my mom or dad would have just come in...maybe then they would've gotten me the help I needed before I was too far gone like...I am now.
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From a child who has silently begged for years...I wish every parent would be little more involved in what's really going on in their kids lives. That would save a lot of developing teenagers from being as fucked up as I.
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Listening to music while showering, doing my skin care routine and lathering my body in lotions is something I used to love.
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Now I listen to music...high, staring at the ceiling while pretending the voices in my head telling me I fucking suck are my friends.
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Television always seemed so fake to me, annoying me more than anything. Recently I've found books to be a better fit. You can feel the emotion in the characters, understand them. I hadn't known that authors romanticize depression, in dark ways and in sweet ways. Maybe that's why I read; fantasizing that some guy will enter my life, sweep me off my feet and save me from myself.
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I'm so fucking pathetic.
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"Get out of your head, Lilliana." Maverick says in a dull tone, swinging my bedroom door open without a knock. "That's no way to enjoy a high." A small smirk plays on his lips as the door closes behind him, now speaking with amusement in his voice as he inspects my face.
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I sit up, resting back against my headboard as he tosses a backpack down on the end of my bed.
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"Didn't you say the whole point of doing this was to feel better?" He asks, dropping down into my desk chair and lazily spreading his legs out in front of him. He's doing that thing, where he looks up at me through loose strands of his wavy brown hair that have fallen in front of his bluish grey eyes.
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"I feel much better thinking like this while high than sober." I say with a bright smile. When he stares in return, I bring my arms up and drop them down into my lap with a sigh. "I'm bored. I need to be doing something."
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"We can go out." He suggests, resting his left elbow on the arm rest. "I need to catch up on some work. Being gone those couple days made a big difference."
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"Aren't you on probation?" I raise my eyebrows. "Don't you think it's a little fucking risky to continue selling, especially a couple days after you got out?"
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"Don't think about that, Lilliana." He tilts his head slightly. "I just gotta be more careful. Which is why you'll be keeping my stuff for a while." Mavericks eyes flicker to the backpack.
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"Yeah fucking right." I shake my head, looking at him like his crazy.
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Mavericks small grin doesn't waver, as if knowing he will get his way. "Come on, you're my best friend, Lilliana..." He moves his head back to its upright position. "Think of how much I've done for you."
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I groan, rolling my eyes. "I can't stand you."
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After dinner with my parents, neither mom or dad questioned our destination when I told them we would be going out for a while.
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I remember when Maverick and I just turned fourteen and decided to try alcohol together. We had a plan to tell my parents that we'd be sleeping in the basement that night. This wasn't odd; we've crashed down there often while watching movies. The basement has a bar with a plethora of alcohol so we figured my mom and dad wouldn't notice a small amount missing. Though we never found out if we were right about that or not; my dad walked in on us in the midst of a shot.
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I'm sure Maverick was as petrified as I was, being so young and caught doing our first bad thing. We were certain that we'd be in a terrible amount of trouble.
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Dad just laughed at our drunken state, giving us a short speech about how to drink responsibly. We were shocked, half wondering if he is serious. That was the first and last speech we got. Ever since, they've assumed we were mature enough to consume alcohol not only at home but at parties too, with much older people.
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Maybe that's part of why I have mentally accepted my drug addiction and Maverick thinks he still recreationally does drugs. Apparently if you don't get high before school, you still don't fall under the addict category. I've tried telling him that's not how that works. His defense is that if he doesn't take a pill when obligations are being done, then he's fine. Though when he wakes up to leave Monday through Friday, he's still high from the pills he took the night before.
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Reality of it is, Maverick is only a little short distance away from being as bad off as I am.
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He will inevitably swallow one on a particularly difficult morning.
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"Me too." I demand, standing in the corner of the kitchen against the counter. The party continues around us. My other hand holds a half full cup of vodka Maverick had poured me.
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I open my mouth as he removes a pill from the baggie that was stashed in his hoodie pocket. He places it on my tongue, making sure to maintain eye contact with me while he does so.
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I bring my drink to my lips, washing it down as he does the same.
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Sometimes I wonder if Maverick is looking at me the way I think he is; like if I wasn't his best friend, he'd fuck me. If we are at school or we're hanging around our families, he acts and gazes as no more than a friend. When we're high, it's hard to tell who Maverick is to me. He gets touchy, says things he wouldn't normally say, does things he wouldn't normally do. Typically I ignore it...but we're high majority of the time now so it's becoming harder to do that.
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"What are you thinking about, Lilliana?"
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The way he speaks my name over and over again has always gotten me lost in a bit of a trance. I may be his friend but who wouldn't get affected by Maverick saying their name in that raspy voice of his.
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I understand him; when we're drinking or high together, I feel drawn to him sexually as well. To be fair, I had a crush on him when we were young but that quickly was washed away when I started getting real with myself...but now substances make me forget all about reality.
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"Nothing." I lie with a shrug, glancing around the kitchen.
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"Something is weighing on you. You've been especially standoffish recently."
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If anyone can spot a change in me, call me out on almost every emotion, it's Maverick. While the world moves around me, wrapped up in me but also so oblivious...he watches.
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"As apposed to what?" I ask. "My cheerful, playful, happy self?" I use a fake chirpy voice and smile before letting it fall, expressionless now.
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He grins, amused by me as usual.
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"Tell me." He doesn't drop it, arching an eyebrow.
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"I'm tired. I haven't been sleeping well." I brush it off.
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It's not a lie; my sleep schedule has been as manic as I've been lately. One night it's three in the morning that I fall asleep, the next is one, sometimes midnight, then there's the nights I get no sleep at all.
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The last thing I want to tell him is that this depression has got me fatigued, desiring death and relishing in self anger.
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"I've got something to help that." Maverick tells me. "I'll give it to you tonight to try out." He then holds up a hand, pausing me as if I was about to say something. "Just make sure you don't stay up till one in the morning and then take it...that would defeat the purpose, Lilliana." I roll my eyes but he maintains his serious tone. "Take it around ten thirty, eleven."
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"I hear you, Maverick."
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That warm, numbing feeling starts at my head, making its way down to my toes. My eyes get a little wider as energy begins to flow. There's nothing better than an upper at a party, it makes you feel right, like you aren't out of place anymore.
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"You feeling it, Lilliana?"
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A devious gleam appears in Maverick's eyes as he stares down at me. A wave of excitement rushes through me, knowing he has something planned.
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"Showtime."
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