Butterfly

Chrysanthemum George (otherwise known as Chrys) is drowning in a world of self-harm, suicide and dark thoughts. Recovery has never been her plan but when a new face arrives on the scene will Chrys have any choice in the matter? A story about the darkness eating at a generation and the difficult route out of it.

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6. Chapter 2, Part 4

“Chrys, I got another phone call from Rita today. She says you walked out of the appointment again.” Jen sighs.

I stifle a laugh as Jen strikes a ridiculous pose and taps her nails against one another in a parody of Rita’s own manicured talons. Neither Jen nor I like Rita. When Jen and Rita had first met, the confusion on Jen’s face had been enough to make me collapse on the floor in a fit of giggles.  She didn’t look like a counsellor. As Jen had put it to me the next morning, she had simply looked like an ‘older version of Marcus’ tangoed-up fake girlfriends’.  I couldn’t help but agree.

“Yeah…The bell went as I left anyway so the teachers won’t be on my back about it at least.” I laugh.

“It’s not funny, Chrys. You’re supposed to be seeing her to get you help. The school have said you need to see her if you want to stay, and you know that, Chrys. Don’t you want to get better?” She asks.

“Of course I do! I can’t help it if they give me an awful psychiatrist who thinks patronising me and talking to me in a sickly sweet voice is going to get me to open up. I’d rather get my nails done like hers than let her prod about in my head.” I lie.

“At least try, Chrys. If you can’t cope with her any longer we’ll see if we can switch her out with someone else, okay?” She says.

I nod and smile like she’s solved all my problems before turning away and leaving her to put the dishes in the dishwasher. It won’t happen. I won’t get a new psychiatrist that actually cares or actually wants to be there listening to my problems. I’ll just get another adult who thinks patronising me or giving me sweets is going to get me to open up like a book almost as quickly as they can turn on a TV. What do they know? They all went to university; got a degree, read some books on mental illness and suddenly they’re experts? They don’t know anything. Books are written by normal, sane people, not people that have actually been ill. They know nothing. They’re the lucky ones. They know the world is broken but they aren’t broken themselves. If jealousy was lethal, I’d have died years ago.

I take the stairs two at a time and trundle down the corridor as I begin to pull at my uniform.  My blazer and tie are off before I even reach my room and as soon as I push the door open they both fly into the corner and crumple into a pile on the floor. I shut my door before ripping off the rest of my uniform and changing into a hoodie and leggings. I place my thumbs through the holes in my sleeves and yank the hood up over my head before throwing myself down onto my bed face first.

I groan as I hear a door creak open slightly down the corridor. A few seconds later a knock echoes on my door and I quickly burrow myself down under my duvet and yank my hood further over my head. My door begins to creak open and I close my eyes.

“Chrys, you awake?” A voice whispers into my room.

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