Page 107 of Sad Girl Hours
Maybe it’s the fact that my parents haven’t bothered to check on me once, not even when I don’t appear at mealtimes. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Nell and imagining what her face looked like as our car pulled away down her street. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that I have faulty brain chemistry. I don’t really care what the cause is. I don’t have the energy to remedy anything, so it’s irrelevant what the cause is.
Kenneth comes in sporadically to lie with me or to look longingly in the direction of my cloaked window. Another thing to feel guilty about. I know my parents will be taking him on long walks – my mum’s a personal trainer and the only reason she wanted a dog in the first place was to have an excuse to exercise even more – but I know he won’t enjoy them as much as ourwalks together. I let him stop and sniff things and make friends, or walk him by the pet shop to get him a treat.
But instead I’m here, just lazing in bed, not even looking outside, never mind going out.
I have posted a few videos. A couple I’d filmed earlier, one I make in the dark about black holes. When I watch the ones I filmed previously and see myself with perfect make-up, perfectly curated clothes, I feel almost violently queasy.
What a fraud I am. I thought that creating this perfect, shiny version of myself would help me to become that more permanently. Instead I’m just lying to everyone. Apart from my parents, but, seeing as they’ve never liked any version of me, that doesn’t make much of a difference.
One day, later in the week, I sit and scroll through every video I’ve ever posted and wonder when it stopped being fun and started feeling like something I had to do to either keep up appearances or to have something to fall back on when everything else in my life crapped out.
The day after, I realise that there are only two days left before Vivvie’s showcase and three before my appointment with James, firstly because I wake up to messages in the group chat from Vivvie asking ‘where the hell are you’ and ‘when the hell are you coming back?’ and secondly because my mum comes to my room for the first time in days.
“Saffron?” She stands in my doorway – I squint against the light. “God, why are you still in bed? It’s nearly twelve.”
She comes over and thrusts my curtains open. I have to close my eyes this time against the brightness. “I hope you’ve been spending the rest of your time more wisely. Have you beenpreparing for your meeting, thinking about what you’re going to say?”
“Yes,” I lie. “I have.”
“And?” She cocks an eyebrow in challenge. “What brilliant things have you come up with?”
I’m quiet.
“I thought so.” She’s looking at me like I’m as pathetic as I feel, her words laced with not venom necessarily, but definitely spite. “Your father and I have been talking, and we thought we might come to the meeting with you. We’ll tell them that we’ve been as disappointed as they have but that we’ve met as a family and have impressed upon you the severity of your situation, and you’ve seen the errors of your ways. All of those things. And we’re prepared to kick up a fuss if they try to push back on you getting this last chance.”
We’ve met as a family, have we? We’ve discussed my situation? The only true thing in all of that was that they’re disappointed in me.
“Are you even sorry?”
I should be used to things like this but the words still knock all the air out of me.
“Sorry?” I repeat.
“For making your father and I come and get you. For not taking your studies seriously. For not caring about—”
I’m crying now. I’m mad at myself because I know she’ll see my tears as a sign of weakness and not just an expression of how angry I am.
“I care,” I say, brushing my cheeks like it’ll do anything to stop this. “I care too much. That’s always the problem.”
My mum rolls her eyes. “Sure you do. That’s the issue here. Caringtoo much.”
Her sarcasm is potent and, actually, does help my tears fade a little. “You don’t know me at all, do you?” My voice comes outquite light, though I’m not feeling that. “You have no idea who I am.”
This seems to take her by surprise. “What on earth do you—”
“Do you really think all of my issues are a result of apathy? Of mynot caring?”
“Well. I’ve never seen—”
“No. You haven’t.” I pause. “I’m depressed. I have depression. And it makes it hard to do things sometimes, on account of feeling like I’m dying, and occasionally because I’m wondering whether it might not be such a bad thing if I was, but don’tevermistake that for apathy. My whole life I’ve tried to be someone that people will love – you, friends, Melanie. Everyone. I’m constantly thinking about how I can make people like me more because – until I went to uni – I didn’t feel like I’d ever managed it.
“I know that you and dad don’t like me. I’ve known that since I was a tiny kid. Does that not make you sad?”
My mum’s face doesn’t alter. Her lips stay pursed, her eyes fixed on me. “I have no idea how your father and I managed to raise such an ungratefulbitch.”
It’s not the first time she’s sworn at me, but it always feels like it is.
“Your whole life we’ve fed you, clothed you, kept a lovely roof over your head.” Mum counts the things off on her fingers. “Do you know how many kids would love to live in a house like this?”
