James Mandarin

Addict

Addiction: the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Addict: a person who is addicted to an activity, habit, or substance: a drug addict.

Maybe I'm an addict. Well, the dictionary says I am.

What makes me an addict? Am I truly an addict or is it just a part of my personality? Was I born with it? Is it just like puberty, a stage I grow into that defines who I am? Most people discover talents they knew they never had; just like Peter Pevensie. He didn't know of the bravery within him until he entered Narnia as a teenager. That was what defined him as a human: his bravery. Or how about Sophie Scholl? Did she know she'd take a stand against the Nazi regime and in the process, lose her life? I don't think so.

I close the blinds and lock the door as I peel away the layers of clothing from my skin. My wrist is red, sore like mum's lipstick. The scars are closed now. They lay on my skin like road bumps. I press them gently and then pull away.

They almost seem beautiful, like a work of art. I stare at them for a while longer before putting on my jacket.

* * *

The news is on downstairs; something about the leadership debate about Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd. I listen for a few minutes until I get sick of listening to their voices. Politicians are corrupt. The only difference is that no one notices and gives a damn. It's all about who can secure the most votes in an election. It's all about popularity. As my former Legal Studies teacher used to say, "Thank your stars you don't live in Africa."

I place my bowl in the sink, take my bag from the floor and head out the door. It's a beautiful day: dark and cloudy. It's probably going to rain soon, and I'll be in the middle of it. I could take my bike, but that would be too much effort.

School's a twenty-minute walk from my house, and I don't have an umbrella. I'm sure if I asked nicely, mum would give me an umbrella: her pink rosy one. There's no way I'm walking down the street holding a rosy umbrella.

That would be social suicide.

I won't say I'm a wallflower. I think that saying has been used too many times. I'm the bottom of a vase, where the flowers are placed in. The flowers and the vase are loved and adored. People stop to admire them and talk about their beauty. No one talks about what's inside the vase, beneath the flowers and within the plastered walls of its container.

I take a left turn at the end of the street when tears fall from heaven. I keep on walking with my head down, with the bag on my shoulder, as the sky is thrown into a state of chaos.