A Drop to the Deck Chairs

Chapter Two

Chapter One 

(Mikhaila Evans)

  How many days had it been? God, it felt like years, lying in bed like this, semi-conscious. Well, she shouldn't have tried to jump off the roof into the swimming pool, but at this point, she hardly gave a damn anymore. Her parents weren't home, and Eminem was blasting from the speakers, she felt like jumping, so she did, drinking champagne as she launched off the roof. Luckily, the champagne bottle was the only thing that broke, as she landed on one of the deck chairs, and passed out. She suffered bad bruises to her arms and ribs, but otherwise was fine. Well, as fine as you being strapped to the bed by your overly concerned parents could be. They refused to let her move, spoon feeding her and wiping her with a damp cloth every day. Even pissing was an issue. It wasn't as though she was crippled, she just felt bloody sore, her parents were overreacting to the max.

  The accident was funny though, it was like that Ron Pope song, "A Drop in the Ocean," her version was, "A Drop to the Deck Chairs." Hey, if eulogies had titles, that could have been hers, well, if her death was caused by this accident. But unfortunately, it wasn't. Yeah, unfortunately. She wanted to die, but just didn't have the guts to do it intentionally-intentionally. She thought it would be less scary to accidentally-intentionally do it, like jump off the roof of your house. Pills? Nah. That Five Finger Death Punch song, "Coming Down," the music video showed the girl puking her ass off. Mick didn't want to end up like that, even though the black dress was pretty.

  Wrist cutting? Meh, too slow. Hanging? Er, it would be ghastly to come home from work and find your daughter suspended from the ceiling, hair in her puce colored face and her eyeballs looking like they were Botoxed. Nope, not fair to her parents. Well, the whole suicide thing was unfair, but so was the world. Also, please skip the whole 'you're sacrificing the permanent on the altar of the immediate; suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem' horseshit. Bitch please, the problems might not be permanent, but they would keep coming, plaguing you, one after the other, fuck it all.

  "Mikhaila, love?" Her father, face lined with worry, stepped into her room, holding a tray of food. Her stomach turned at the thought and smell of food. "Eat something, will ya?"

  "Let me go and I will, well, at least let me feed myself, no spoonfeeding," she grimaced as she tried to shift her position. It was warranting her a crick in the neck. Heehee, it was more like, 'let me go and I'll run away before you can strap me back and make me feel like a sex slave." It wasn't like he abused her sexually, but being strapped reminded her of the images she caught her best friend's dad looking at. A tormented sex slave being whipped with a riding crop or something, she couldn't quite remember. That was five years ago, when she was twelve.

  "Yes, yes, about that," he winced, like she'd slapped him. She wasn't surprised, she never spoke to him before as forcefully as she just did. Oops. "You're going to Aslen with us, me and your mother, and my colleagues."

  "Hell no." She narrowed her eyes and he winced again. "I'm staying home. Chill the eff out, I won't try to die again." It was only half sarcastic. “Have someone babysit me, but I’m not going.”

  “I will try to convince your mother, goodbye,” he quickly scuttled out, shutting the door. The tray of food on her dresser sent up smells that made bile rise in her throat. It smelt good, but she just didn’t want food now. Particularly now.

  If they sent a babysitter, at least she could intimidate her. With what? Mick didn’t know, she didn’t cut a particularly formidable figure, with her 5’6’’ height, skinny limbs, almond shaped brown eyes, olive skin, and crimson, thin lips. She looked like a cancer patient, well, albeit one whose face wasn’t puffy with steroid treatment, not like that chick in The Fault in Our Stars. Shailene Woodley didn’t make a very nice Hazel, in her opinion. The book stated that Hazel was frail, and had a puffy steroid face. Shailene didn’t have a puffy face, but Mick wondered if she felt offended that she was cast since she didn’t have a puffy face. And Shailene was sorta big sized. Ansel Elgort was her boyfriend, Augustus Waters, which was just plain nasty.