The Day Hope was Murdered

11. Tiffany, the Frazzled Red Head

// Chapter 11: Tiffany, the Frazzled Red-Head \\

It may be just me, but sometimes I like to climb out on the roof in the middle of the night. There's something about sitting on top of the world with nothing but pitch blackness surrounding you.

The freedom.

The space to think. To be yourself.

With being in that dreadful hospital, I haven't gotten to sit on the roof for a while. Instead, I got to spend time in a dungeon that made me feel claustrophobic.

The willow trees never induced clastrophobicness. Even though sitting under them was synonymous to being in an enclosed space, it was different than being confined to the hospital or my bedroom.

And now . . . as a I look up at the night sky, filled with billions of sparkling stars, I am relieved to have finally left the dungeon and all the long tunnels associated with it.

It is now past 3 in the morning.

I tried to sleep, I really did, but my worry overwhelmed me so much that I just couldn't find it in me to lose consciousness. You see, after Amanda dropped me off, I did what she said and searched for my journal. You know, the one that I keep in my trunk which is missing in action? Yeah, that one.

I searched every nook and cranny there ever was in my house, heck, even outside my house. All I found was everything but my journal. That includes several pieces of moldy bread and what I think was rat poop, but who knows. Needless to say, not only did this searching exhaust me, it also brought down my motivation from Amanda's pep talk earlier.

I sigh into the night air and rest my head on my arms. My thoughts wander to what awaits me in a few hours. Support group. Even though I told my mom the truth about not taking the drugs, she is still hesitant around me and insists I go. "It'll be good for you," she said.

As soon as she told me, we broke out in a huge fight, one in which I wish I stood up for myself more.

There's the big dipper, I think to myself as I notice the constellation.

Flashback to a few hours ago:

"What do you mean, I have to go to support group? Last time didn't help at all. Every one found out that I have a dead sister and they'll never look at me the same again." The last part I keep to myself, not wanting to sound weak.

"I'm not arguing over this Leila. Dr. Harrison and I talked about it we've already decided; you're going regardless of your opinion on the matter."

At this point, I'm pissed at her for not taking into account my opinion on anything these days. "You already locked me in my room for nearly a week. Wasn't that punishment enough?"

My mom throws her hands up in the air. "Gosh Leila. Can you just listen to me for once without questioning? I'm sick and tired of your defiance." This last part she practically screamed at me. "I am your mother whether you like it or not, and you're going to just have to suck it up and go tomorrow. And while you're at it, you'll go next week as well."

I start to protest, "But—"

"Keep arguing and I'll make it a month."

At that moment, my mouth snaps shut. I came in here to ask her about my trunk, only to break out in a screaming match. Well actually, more like a one-sided screaming match.

Being the insane person I am, I ask about the trunk anyways.

"This isn't an argument, and it's not even related to support group, so you can hold your horses, but you know that trunk in my room?" I ask.