Teen Rebellion // S.R. ✓

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

(tw: mentions of suicide attempt)*

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Summer of next year. Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York.

Too much happened on your graduation day. More than you imagined. It's been a year since then, but the terms have flown by and all you can fully grasp onto is the day you held your diploma tightly between your fingertips and the call you received from your mother.

Yes, your mother called you. But it wasn't from her usual phone number or a different phone number with an odd area code, it was from a mental hospital. You weren't aware, neither was Penelope, and that's why when she called that night, it took you a minute to respond.

"Hello? Y/N, are you on the line? I don't have long on the phone, I've designated a spot for myself since I admitted myself in November," she told you, and your throat ran dry, your eyes soaking every ounce of water in your body. You realized that was the reason she wasn't making personal calls was because she couldn't, and she was most likely sending money through someone else.

You felt your heart shatter into a million pieces, guilty running around to try and pick up each piece, but it was far too broken. Sure, your mom was an asshole, but she was in a mental hospital and you weren't aware of how or what she did to get herself emitted. So, you replied with: "What the hell happened?" Because that's all you could say... or maybe you could have asked "how are you? Are you okay," but your mind was jumbling and you had to choose a question before you ran out of time.

Come to find out, she tried to kill herself. She said she was in one of the darkest spots of her life and she regretted everything she had done, and while she wanted to apologize, she felt as if you wouldn't accept it, so she tried downing a bottle of pills. It didn't work, she tried overdosing on ibuprofen and it didn't sit well for her. She blacked out, yeah, spent some time in the hospital, then was sent to a mental institution, to which she stayed in until June.

She had enough money to stay, but they gave her the OK to leave because she "wasn't suicidal anymore," which in your opinion, was quite confusing. You always wondered how a suicidal person got rid of the thoughts— did they stuff it in the back of their head and simply think happy thoughts 24/7? Even now that you've recovered from the nasty eating disorder and suicidal tendencies, the thought of life without you still appears in your brain every now and then. You're sure it'll never disappear, which seems discomforting, but you're used to it; you've learned to live with it, and it hasn't been an issue that has run around you like a small toddler.

Your mom was supposed to stay until July, but she left. They told her okay, like you said, but when you picked her up in one of the smallest towns in Virginia, she seemed shaken. Her hands kept themselves entwined on her lap and her eyes flickered to every light post and car that passed by—she looked doped up on drugs. Hell, she probably was, but you didn't acknowledge her actions because it felt awkward too. Plus, she replied to most of your questions truthfully, spilling her emotions onto you like a gust of wind at a beach. The apologies and declarations resembled sand pelting your skin, pushing through the top layer and making you bleed. It was painful to listen, you'll admit, but you did so anyway because she was vulnerable enough for you to ask any question that came to mind. You didn't use her because she was emotionally vulnerable, but because she was willing to tell you what you felt needed to be answered.

She answered everything.

She said she hated herself and she saw her eyes and her hair and her smile and her entire body every time she saw you, and she absolutely hated it. She said she had committed appalling rebellion and far fetched actions that led her into a dark place and she couldn't bear looking at you because that's all she saw: herself committing those acts. And to be quite honest, you felt pathetic because you knew what she was speaking of. She was speaking of drugs and sex and the stereotypical teen rebellion shown in movies, the stereotypical teen rebellion you were placing yourself into. Your mother hated that she lived that role and said she never wanted you to live through it, but you already did. It was done. You got high every weekend and most week days, you would drink until you blacked out, and you almost considered doing crack one day after watching a movie. You hadn't, but the things that shook her to the core from anxiousness had already been done.