Not every night is this bad. It hardly ever gets to this point, where I am sitting on the cold tiled bathroom floor, looking back and forth between the eight different bottles of pills, and the razor. Every now and then my eyes get so clouded over with tears that I lift one shaky hand up to my face, and brush at them furiously. In an attempt to push away some pain too, I think. It never works. Suddenly the middle of my scalp has become unbearably itchy, and I dig furiously at it, squinting my eyes shut, as though that helps. It doesn't. I wonder if they're all asleep. But why am I wondering? It's two am. Of course they are. But if they weren't would they even care what I was doing in here. Would they knock on the door to wonder why I've been in here for the last two hours? Staring at a bottle of Aspirin? A bottle of Tylenol? Two bottles of morphine, Three bottles of Gemi's antibiotics, and a bottle of Midol? The Midol is in part because I really do have cramps. Suddenly I hear a faint sound that may have been laughter escape from my throat. But it's gone, because I'm crying again. Nothing seems genuinely funny anymore. Tomorrow I wont have cramps.

I wonder if she even cares that I think she doesn't like me. I wonder if she cares that I don't like me. If I don't like me. How can she like me? Sometimes I have this urge to sit down and just say "Mom, I know you think I am a horrible person. But I fear that I really might be." Sometimes I want to say things like that. But they never come out. Once I almost told her that I had racked up a lifetime worth of credit, and I had no idea how to pay it back. But I didn't.

Today I don't want to live. But I fear all of the things that I will miss tomorrow. I wanted to take Mea to the park. I don't want her to remember me as her cousin when she was four who killed herself. Who hurt herself....who...well......who did it. But see this is about my failure again. I can't even go through with it. And.....God....it hurts so much. I can feel the tears not only burning my eyes, but starting right in my chest, and pushing upwards. My nose has started to run, and all I can do, is watch the tears plopping onto my dark chest, and clouding my vision. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, and still I sit with the bottles on their sides, between my legs. Suddenly the dimples on my thighs have become my main focus. And within twenty minutes I am on the floor in my room doing side leg raises and alternating between side crunches, and knee bends.

***

I'm walking briskly, and quickly past his house, but I'm really hoping he will be sitting in his front window, and come running out to give me shit for not stopping to say hi. I'm walking this fast, with my eyes downcast as though I don't really want to see him, and that I am not in a rush. But when it comes to him I will usually drop whatever it is I'm doing. Rush where? I'm past his house now and have rounded the corner. My heart feels as though it has blown up to a thousand times its size, and has now exploded, leaking on the inside of my body, and is slowly supplying my limbs with my pathetic-ness. Is that a word? Now my body feels defeated, and I feel like crying again. Which is another thing? When did I become so weak? So incapable of holding back tears. I can't believe I did that. Just to see him, and.......and what? We have nothing. Had nothing. Are nothing, and can scarcely be called friends anymore. But it hurts more than anything else in the world possibly could. It hurts.

***

When finally I get inside my house, feeling as though I need to crawl into a corner and sulk. I hear laughter. It's hers. And theirs. The four of them. I've always felt this way I guess. Sometimes more than others. Like now. That I would never be welcome to go and sit on her bed, and laugh, and smile, and crack jokes. That part of her life doesn't belong to me. And apparently I've done something to not deserve it. The feeling that I am strictly a guest here. And again.....that she doesn't even like me. I am constantly reminded that I am not her daughter. It doesn't have to be said.....it doesn't have to be spoken.....but still I am reminded of it, it's in the looks, or even lack of looks. No touch, no smile, no friendliness. But what is it then? Because some days it's not all that bad. But maybe it's just because I am not paying attention to it. I feel so left out, and hurt, to know that I will never be allowed to have that, and even worse, that she doesn't really want me here at all. This I know in the depths of my heart. Perhaps I should write a book on things adoptive parents shouldn't do. Before I can skulk down the stairs, one of them comes out. It's one I like. Sort of. The other two vary from time to time. But this one I like.

"Just got in Lia?"

"Yup!"

"How'd your exam go?" She bent down to tie her shoes, and her Cinderella weave, flowed around her shoulders. Mom paid for it. I reached up to touch my picky, knotty head. It hasn't been relaxed in four months.

"Not bad. Got one wrong for sure. Was on Aristotle's theory on death," I told her.

"What'd you write?"

"Don't eat yellow snow," I said, and she burst into laughter, straightening up, and tossing the fake hair over her shoulder. Her laugh was loud, and boisterous. And I remember the last time I laughed here, how Mom had said I was too loud, and that it was unnecessary. I went down the stairs to my room. Changed, packed up my books, so I could leave. Every reason to be out I possibly would invent. As I head for the bus stop, I realized I didn't know where I was going to study, nor did I know what time t he bus came. Didn't matter. I could use this time to talk to myself. And so I did. At the bus stop, one of them drove by. In her car. Probably going to her school to study. Mine is a good half hour farther than hers, but I've never once taken the car to study. I am never permitted to have use the car, without some laborious argument about how I shouldn't make a habit of this, or.....blah fucking blah. I pretended not to notice her driving by me. And so does she. I don't care.

***

Somehow without realizing it, I have the bottles with me in my study room at school. My books are out in front of me, and I have just looked at a test I got back earlier today. An A minus. That's really good. I have just popped seven of the Midol, though I no longer have cramps. I realize also that I didn't take Mea to the park. Another thing I have failed to do. I chase the pills with a sip of vodka. I've never had a drink in my life.....but I figure this should help.

Amazing how I have gotten this far, and didn't know I was going to. What a weird place. I keep thinking about the fact that God doesn't send people who......who....do it to heaven. And there are a few people there I need to see. My Mom for one. But.....I can't do this anymore. My face hurts from the permanent frown on it. It just won't turn right side up. Sometimes I try. What have I done for you to punish me so? To whom might I be talking? Or more correctly? What the fuck am I talking about? The lights are off, and I am sitting in my study room, pills between my outstretched legs, hands shaking, my faint vision blurring, because of the tears running down my face, vodka in hand, and frown in my heart. The pills in the bottle of Midol have been swallowed, and I realize fearfully that I am almost there, and that I am doing it. It's been three minutes. I can't turn back, and what will they all say? Gemi will cry. Gemi will cry forever. Should I stop and write something? No! my tears will blur the page. And they will know that I am weak. But does this not make me weak? Gemi will cry. And I am crying for Gemi because I love her. Eight Tylenol. The chalky taste of it, has now been replaced by the burning Vodka. Now I know why I don't drink this shit. And for a moment I feel as though I might wretch. Seven minutes. But who will tell Jermaine to stop running after the floosies? If I'm not here, who will tell Dion what to do if Lydia calls him again? If I'm not here? If I'm not here........someone else will do it.

I haven't cried this hard ever. I'm glad the place is quiet. I'm the only one around. I realize suddenly that Mom will not be hurt. She will say I was stupid, and that I was weak and took the easy way out. And this brings more tears. And the last bottle remains, with two minutes left to go. I wonder if I might have made a new record, for swallowing pills. Funny thing is my hands aren't shaking anymore, and I realize my cowardice, but this pain is so unbearable, I don't know the difference anymore. I try and smile. I want them to see a smile on my face when they come to get me. A really really big one.

So consciously through my tears, I swallow another twelve, with twelve seconds to go. The bottle is not empty. Neither am I. I don't feel anything yet, smile. 12 minutes. The average person has the urge to.......do......to do......it, for twelve minutes. Finally I have completed something. I wish I could say I feel drowsy, but I don't. I feel better than I did when I came in here, but now I can smile, with a big grin. Maybe I will just lay here and wait. I don't even know if this will work. I don't even know. But in the bottom of my heart, the fear of not thinking of anything happening beyond the next hour, tells me it will work. And when I finally look at my watch again, I realize I can't see it, because there is a cloud, not marred by tears, fogging my vision. My life. I reach for the phone, in a definite delirium, and dial the numbers. I feel it slipping from my fingers, and my body falling to the floor.