Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I think the worst thing they can do in rehab is force us into these stupid social circles. I mean, who wants to talk to complete strangers about our traumas?
This is bullshit and with the look of pure annoyance on everyone’s face, they wholeheartedly agree. But Dr. Bailey thinks we need to find “friendship” and “socialize.” Again, bullshit.
Socializing and friends were what got me here in the first place.
“Dr. Bailey said these circles are supposed to create a foundation for us,” one of the girls starts. Our attention snaps to her, and she clears her throat, nervously. She seems to be the oldest one here. “Uhm, to strengthen the support system between peers and to learn how to trust again.”
Another girl scoffs.
My throat closes at her words. How to trust again.
I trusted Jasper.
I trusted my parents.
I trusted my friends.
In the end? I ended up alone.
Here, in this cold place. I hate it. And I hate everyone who has put me here.
“My name is Olivia,” she continues, while combing her fingers through her thick, wavy hair. Mine is still choppy and uneven from when I had carelessly cut through it two weeks ago.
Her dark eyes shift between us anxiously. It must be hard, being the person to break the ice among the six of us. She’s trying to make conversation, just like Dr. Bailey suggested. “I’m here because I’m addicted to heroin. I was here two years ago, but relapsed a few months later. So, here I am again. This time, I want to get better.”
The girl who scoffed, a tiny Asian with purple hair and lips painted with dark-red lipstick. “You kiss her ass? Dr. I-want-to-fix-you?”
Olivia flinches, dropping her gaze. Her shoulders slump in a rejected posture.
“Hey, I don’t know about Olivia, but I’ll definitely kiss Dr. Bailey’s ass. She’s got a nice ass,” another voice pitches in, this one with a heavy German accent.
“Ew, you’re into grandmas?”
“Dr. Bailey is like 35 years old max. And she’s hot, okay?”
“I’m suicidal.”
Everyone pauses, the room filling with silence. We turn to the girl in the far corner, to my right. With our attention now on her, she lets out a harsh mocking laugh. “Did I somehow grow two heads in the last two minutes?”
“No,” I whisper.
“My name is Steffy,” she continues, rolling up her long sleeves and showing us the silvery scars on her arms. Some new, some faded. But each one of them tells its own tragic story. “The first time I thought of killing myself, I was eleven. I thought it would be the easiest escape from my stepbrother.”
Purple-hair, who is sitting next to Steffy, shifts closer to her. “My name is Eun-Jung. No, I don’t have an American or simplified English name. I’m Eun-Jung, that’s it.”
Her hand moves to her hair, twisting a purple strand around her index finger. “I have bad PTSD, because…my boyfriend was my trafficker. Shit happened, I escaped, and he’s dead. But, yeah.”
When no one says a word, Eun-Jung stabs a finger into the bicep of the girl next to her. “Your turn.”
“I’m Millie,” she introduces herself, her blue eyes shifting among all of us. Almost like she’s carefully studying each of us. “I’m German. I have bipolar disorder and depression.” Her gaze finally lands on me and she points. “Your turn.”
Fuck, what am I doing here? My head grows heavy, and the ground seems to shift under me. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, and I try to swallow, but it’s like every single function in my body has stopped working. “I, uhm…”
“I remember you,” Steffy says, “you went to Berkshire Academy, right? I saw you in the news, on Twitter.”
What?
“The Christmas party,” she elaborates. “It was all over social media.”
My stomach twists, with a sharp abdominal pain. “Yeah, that’s me,” I confess shakily. I’m going to be sick, oh God! “Public humiliation. Everyone witnessed it.”
Steffy cringes, her expression turning apologetic, but it’s already too late. That night was exactly what I wanted to forget, but I think maybe it’ll continue to haunt me for the rest of my life. Everyone has seen me at my worst — and because of it I was outcasted, ridiculed and shamed.
“My name is Riley. I have bulimia and anxiety disorder. My parents put me here, so I can’t further humiliate them.”
Their attention doesn’t linger on me, and I’m thankful for that. Anxiety is a bitch and this is exactly why this is a bad idea. Talking to people. Telling them what hurts me.
But I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of relief. It’s a weird feeling of consolation and I don't exactly understand why. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve said those words out loud.
I’m sick, I need help…and my parents think I’m nothing but a humiliation to them.
Our gazes turn to the last girl in the circle. She’s sitting cross-legged against the wall and she’s also the only girl who hasn’t spoken a word yet. The black scarf on her head hides her hair, and fully covers her neck. “My turn?” she speaks, her voice timid.