𝟏𝟓 | 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐬

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M A R S

The planet fourth in order from the sun and conspicuous for its red color.

T O  T H E
M O O N & B A C K

IT HAS OFFICIALLY been twenty-two days since I made the decision to rid of my pills entirely. Therefore, I have spent—as I calculated multiple times—five-hundred and twenty-two hours without them in my life. I mean, I think it's been that long. Time has become meaningless, more meaningless than it was before. 

A day feels like a year for me. When I'm on the pills, a day can even feel like an entire decade, and I use the exaggeration extremely lightly. It's like pure and utter bloody torture. And now, I have too much energy. There are no days, no weeks, no night and day, because every passing minute all blurs into one mass amount of time, allowing me to do anything and everything I want because, ironically, time has become timeless.

And if time becomes timeless, it also becomes meaningless. And if it is meaningless, then what is the purpose of it? When we pass, no one will remember us eventually, and if no one remembers us, then were we ever really here? 

Fucking hell.

A knock sounded at my door but I couldn't stop writing on my laptop. I just couldn't, I was drowning in every fucking word that I was typing. I'm a fucking genius. I should become an author—a fucking journalist, I don't know. I'd be the best writer in the world, without a degree. I don't need a bloody college education to prove I can do something.

At this very moment, I know I am brilliant. I know I am far above everyone else. My mind—what I'm tapped into right now is so far above everything else. What I am doing is phenomenal.

I heard the hinges attached to the door squeak as I lift my head. Pandora stands in the doorway, warily. She has three boxes in her hands as she kicks the door shut and walks over to where I resonated—and where I have remained for the last eight hours—at the kitchen island.

"These were at your door?" she sounds confused as she analyzes the cardboard boxes. "You hate shopping online. What are these?"

I open my mouth to speak, but quite frankly, I don't have a single fucking clue. I bought heaps of shit off this website last night and every time I'd check out, it would tell me that if I spent fifty dollars more, I could save fifteen percent, so I kept going.

I don't bother to answer as I turn my attention back to the Word document displayed on my screen. Four-thousand words and I've barely started. I don't even know what it is that I am actually writing about. It started one way, and now it is about something entirely different.

"Are you high?" I shake my head and she laughs. "Right, dumb question. I'm asking the kid that's always fucking high."

For once I'm not. All these emotions, pure, heavy, and raw, are real. I'm feeling. I'm feeling so much and after feeling nothing for so long, it feels so fucking good. Like taking meth for the first time and being high for hours on end, except without actually injecting myself.

Suddenly, a manicured hand presses the lid of my laptop shut and my nostrils flare as I snap my head in her direction. Dark painted lips lift into a smile, her two-toned hair tied into a tight ponytail, lifting her features, making her eyes fox-like. She looks conflicted.

I'm conflicted too. I don't know whether to kiss her or tell her to fuck off. 

"So," she begins, hoisting herself onto the counter. "I was thinking—what if we go find that little slag from second period and, like, I don't know scare the shit out of her or something. Pretty sure she lives across the hall from Nash. Well, that's what he said, anyway."

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