Prozac Nation: My Own Words, chapter 5
I go back to the cemetery. It's cold. I sit in front of the family mausoleum and I take out my sketchbook. Years of drawing, hard work and dedication went into this book. And, very soon, a lot more.
Before I start drawing, I call Mitch. I tell him to come by later in the afternoon. He tells me okay, I'll call you later. I think on how Mitch and I met, how we've grown together, how different we are and yet we always get along. Better make a note to get him something good for Christmas.
I take out a pencil. I begin sketching the forest that lies beyond the cemetery, the one no one likes to go into. The trees in the front are long dead because of a fire that was started when a mourner sat at a rock to cry and placed his candle next to a pile of dead leaves. Nice smart bloke, kinda like my aunt.
I am halfway through this last picture when a heavy hand grabs my shoulder. I yell. And when I look up, I see that it's Mitch. What a moron.
"Sorry," he said.
I scowl.
He takes the sketch in his hands and examines it. "Cool, I like this one," he says.
At this remark, I grin and continue my work. Mitch remains unusually quiet. I can see in his eyes that something is troubling him.
"Kim," Mitch starts. "We're friends, right?"
I don't see where this is going. "Yeah."
Mitch seems nervous. "And we'll always be, no matter what we feel, right?"
I'm getting scared. "Mitch, what are you saying?"
"All I'm saying is... uhh... "
Mitch, are you saying that you like me?
He suddenly looks up and I see his eyes are slightly wet but firm.
"Kim, I've been in love with you ever since the sixth grade."
I... I'll take that as a yes.
"Mitch... look. I've always seen you as a friend, just a friend. And I think that it's better if we just keep it that way."
I say these words in a soft tone, a comforting tone. Mitch's eyes look stricken for a moment. I wish I had held my tongue.
"Well... I guess it's okay," he says in a whisper. I take his hand at I give it a few awkward pats. I kiss his cheek and I stand to go. I walk out of the cemetery, Mitch right behind me.
The sky has turned into a weird mixture of tubercular gray and Payne's gray (which is almost black, for those who don't know art). My sandwich is pathetic. This life is pathetic. All is pathetic in my world.
Mitch went straight back to his turf after we got back from the cemetery. I guess I hurt his feelings.
Did I like Mitch?
I take a mustard glop filled bite. No, I guess I don't really like him. Or do I? I'm confused. Grand stains of mustard slop down my throat. They're as big as my confusion. Ew.
Do I love Mitch?
My throat is a sticky mess. So is my conscience.
I think I do like him. It's hard not to. He's been so good to me and so thoughtful and he's the only one that's there for me. He's my best friend, and I can't imagine that ending. The only way it could change is if it grew.
I feel pathetic.
Mom used to say that patience was the strongest thing in the world. Good old mom. The cancer got the best of her, and grieving her made me think only of the pain and suffering that she passed through and how much I realized that I needed her. Dad was gone, then mom, then I was withering away into shadows. My family didn't really do anything to help me, so I helped myself. Talking with Mitch was one way, then when I switched to drugs and looking up prescription pills in the cupboards. I was scared, yet I didn't stop.
I kept going until I almost died because of an overdose. I was fourteen, and Mitch was totally pissed. He was scared as hell, and he never told me. He thought I needed professional help, but he never told on me. I guess he wanted me to find it out myself. But I didn't. My aunt slowly wondered where did I go every Saturday night, from about eight to eleven. And when I wasn't out or in school I was locked up in my room lost in space. With my headphones on and the volume up to full blast I disconnected myself from reality. And my aunt started getting involved.
And I don't want to remember anything else because you're calling me to go into your office.
And I just pull my hood up and go inside. No arguing this time.
Before I start drawing, I call Mitch. I tell him to come by later in the afternoon. He tells me okay, I'll call you later. I think on how Mitch and I met, how we've grown together, how different we are and yet we always get along. Better make a note to get him something good for Christmas.
I take out a pencil. I begin sketching the forest that lies beyond the cemetery, the one no one likes to go into. The trees in the front are long dead because of a fire that was started when a mourner sat at a rock to cry and placed his candle next to a pile of dead leaves. Nice smart bloke, kinda like my aunt.
I am halfway through this last picture when a heavy hand grabs my shoulder. I yell. And when I look up, I see that it's Mitch. What a moron.
"Sorry," he said.
I scowl.
He takes the sketch in his hands and examines it. "Cool, I like this one," he says.
At this remark, I grin and continue my work. Mitch remains unusually quiet. I can see in his eyes that something is troubling him.
"Kim," Mitch starts. "We're friends, right?"
I don't see where this is going. "Yeah."
Mitch seems nervous. "And we'll always be, no matter what we feel, right?"
I'm getting scared. "Mitch, what are you saying?"
"All I'm saying is... uhh... "
Mitch, are you saying that you like me?
He suddenly looks up and I see his eyes are slightly wet but firm.
"Kim, I've been in love with you ever since the sixth grade."
I... I'll take that as a yes.
"Mitch... look. I've always seen you as a friend, just a friend. And I think that it's better if we just keep it that way."
I say these words in a soft tone, a comforting tone. Mitch's eyes look stricken for a moment. I wish I had held my tongue.
"Well... I guess it's okay," he says in a whisper. I take his hand at I give it a few awkward pats. I kiss his cheek and I stand to go. I walk out of the cemetery, Mitch right behind me.
The sky has turned into a weird mixture of tubercular gray and Payne's gray (which is almost black, for those who don't know art). My sandwich is pathetic. This life is pathetic. All is pathetic in my world.
Mitch went straight back to his turf after we got back from the cemetery. I guess I hurt his feelings.
Did I like Mitch?
I take a mustard glop filled bite. No, I guess I don't really like him. Or do I? I'm confused. Grand stains of mustard slop down my throat. They're as big as my confusion. Ew.
Do I love Mitch?
My throat is a sticky mess. So is my conscience.
I think I do like him. It's hard not to. He's been so good to me and so thoughtful and he's the only one that's there for me. He's my best friend, and I can't imagine that ending. The only way it could change is if it grew.
I feel pathetic.
Mom used to say that patience was the strongest thing in the world. Good old mom. The cancer got the best of her, and grieving her made me think only of the pain and suffering that she passed through and how much I realized that I needed her. Dad was gone, then mom, then I was withering away into shadows. My family didn't really do anything to help me, so I helped myself. Talking with Mitch was one way, then when I switched to drugs and looking up prescription pills in the cupboards. I was scared, yet I didn't stop.
I kept going until I almost died because of an overdose. I was fourteen, and Mitch was totally pissed. He was scared as hell, and he never told me. He thought I needed professional help, but he never told on me. I guess he wanted me to find it out myself. But I didn't. My aunt slowly wondered where did I go every Saturday night, from about eight to eleven. And when I wasn't out or in school I was locked up in my room lost in space. With my headphones on and the volume up to full blast I disconnected myself from reality. And my aunt started getting involved.
And I don't want to remember anything else because you're calling me to go into your office.
And I just pull my hood up and go inside. No arguing this time.
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