18 Day Rose

Monday, 14th
I failed. I know it. I know I failed my psychology test. God how I want to stab my teacher. Mrs. Martin, oh that old hag drones on and on. I think that if she tried to maybe introduce our class to something maybe oh, I don't know, more hands on, or maybe visual, we could learn something USEFUL for once. All of my other classes went just fine. I am loving only two classes, one is gym, where despite the fact that people laugh and snicker behind my back because I'm different; I really don't care. I'm a good athlete, and gym lets me get out my anger in physical ways. I would love to be on the swim team. It would only be me and the clock. I don't have to worry about "the team" I can focus on myself. I could give a flying rats ass about anyone else. I hate the fact that my fat, useless, lug of MOTHER can't manage to hack up the money for the athletic fees. Gahhh she just makes we want to…calm, be calm, don't throw a fit and end up screaming and go to what the therapist calls "the dark place." Moving on to a better topic, my other class that I really love, is my Conceptual Drawing class. Mr. Whitacre is very eccentric, intelligent and full of expression. He's perfect. Sometimes I think that he is God. No, wait he's better than God. Long hippie-ish ashy-brown hair, acid green eyes, and despite his age (He's turning 30 in exactly two weeks and four days). He looks like one of those hot models you see on the wall at Aberzombie and Bitch, I mean Abercrombie and Fitch. RAHHH my MOTHER is calling from her perch on the sofa, so I must stop writing to fetch her yet another beer.
Tuesday 15th
I had forgot to mention that despite the fact that I love writing, all of these diaries are for my therapist; her name is Mrs. Timbralton. It started when I first started going to her; I always ended up talking about what I wrote and drew in my diaries. She gave me what I call the "Barbie doll smile" and said in a way too perky voice, that I should write a diary for her to study, and she challenged me to write in it every day. It didn't matter what I wrote, just that I wrote. The only other rule she gave me was that I could not draw, just write. I asked her why. I couldn't really understand her answer, just that something along the lines of "I'm not a visual person" or some such piece of shit excuse. That's why I hate going. I feel no help and I don't see what "improvement" they are looking for. I can't stand things that are useless, I all ready have to deal with my walrus of a MOTHER who just so happens to be calling for me now, screaming for me and FINE I'M COMING!
Wednesday 16th
I have started collecting MOTHER'S beer cans from around the house, holding them in a bag behind the garage, to take up to the Food Town for cash. I went there today by bus (since MOTHER can't hack up money for driving classes either, and big brother Ryan is in California for college) and managed to make $10. The pay to play fee which is $120, and the uniform on top of that is $35, at least I think it is. I have started walking and picking up pop cans and such for my little money maker. I just wish I were 16. There are so little opportunities for 15 year olds.
Thursday 17th
I actually learned something USEFUL in psychology today! I almost managed to smile a real, genuine smile, upon learning this. There is this argument called "Nature vs. Nurture." "Nature" is our genes, the things we are born with. "Nurture" is the environment around us, how we were raised. It turns out those children who are raised by parents that are more, oh how to say this, "hands-off" or by people like that one jerk ass on the news that who kept his kids in cages; those kids end up like autistic kids. The "special" children, those that when they do something like running through the halls and screaming; the fake, useless, idiots of my class snicker and laugh at him. I want to punch all of those. It's not their fault; they were born that way. Back to the "Nurture" idea, I think that maybe because of my past, what with my dad leaving and all that, and brother acting on his own, being the "good kid" and getting more love from MOTHER because apparently I was and "unlucky and unhappy accident" that caused Dad to leave, and probably the horrid reason that caused my MOTHER to become the walrus she is now, splayed out on the couch, watching Oprah and reality T.V. MOTHER didn't want to raise me, care for me. She left those things to myself, and on occasion my brother and lovely late Grandma Maria, with her loving, gentle personality. Once first grade came and she passed away, life went down the shitter at light speed. So maybe without me being "nurtured" like most of the other kids at St. Raphael, with rich parents who buy them Mercedes Benz's for their birthdays, and stop. Stop before the rage begins. But without all that nurturing, maybe I'm so screwed up for a reason.
Friday 18th
Just want to say I hate my life, hate it. All the people talking behind my back, all the whispers like knives. God I hate all the brainwashed teenagers at this school. No it's not a school it IS a prison. My life is one big lake, with my sea-cow of a MOTHER and the Catholic Institution at the center. With one drop of water I become a black storming sea of rage, with a nuclear bomb field underneath waiting for the man at the desk to push the button, or that stupid janitor cleaning up to pull the wrong wire. Which ever happens first.
Monday the 21st
I was drawing in Concept today, when some fake-ass, bleach blond, bimbo cheerleader decided to knock over the box of charcoals all over my space. Do you know how hard it is to brush off charcoals from paper without having black marks all over the place? She gave a bouncy, meek, little, "Oh I'm sorry." She proceeded to clean up her mess. I glared at her the whole time,  even a little bit afterwards too. I only wish that my eyes could do as the saying goes, "glare daggers" because if they could, she'd be pinned up against a wall, knives in her everywhere, like one of those circus freaks who is strapped to the spinning wheel, while their partner throws knives at them blindfolded. Only, I wouldn't kill her. She doesn't deserve to die, but to be scarred by the daggers, so that all the jocks and other stupid, hormone enraged bastards will see her ugly insides as her ugly outsides too. But the second Mr. Whiteacre looked at my messed up paper, he said, "Why don't you use all those dark marks as shadows? I think that it could make for a very interesting picture" And I smiled, my heart fluttering and I forgot all about the ditz who made it that way. I even almost thanked her in my mind. Well almost.
Tuesday 22nd
I have about $40 for my "swim fund" as I am now calling it. I have found that the college nearby has a LOT of cans up for grabs. They are just lying in the street, boxes of cans. Mostly beer, but hey not that I mind. I think to myself, alright stupid broke college kids; don't get money for recycling your junk. Stay poor then.   
Wednesday 23rd
Today begins the short week of "Fall Break", because even the Catholic schools have to be politically correct now. I don't know why I go to a catholic school, or why I even exist if my MOTHER hates me so much. She told me the other day when she saw my grades that I had better start doing better, because the schooling ain't free. I told her that there is a perfectly good public, and free school that I pass on my way to Catholic Hell every day. She told me to watch my mouth, I told her to make me. Then she (insert gasp here) made a move to get up, but really ended up sighing and lowering her voice to the rat and spider infested crawlspace beneath us, telling me the only reason that I am even living to have this argument with her is that Grandma Maria, wouldn't let her only soon to be granddaughter be put up for adoption, or have her daughter commit the sin of abortion. That and she said that she didn't want to go to jail for murder, because of course that would take away the money she gets from the Government to feed her face and indulge her drinking problem so that she ends up drowning in the bottle of beer I hardly ever see her without.  She didn't add that part about the money or drinking in there, but I knew it was true. Here I am arguing with my walrus of a MOTHER and thinking, Grandma for once was wrong.  
Thursday 25th
Today was Thanksgiving and Ryan came out from California, and before he came to our house he made a run to the store to buy some mashed potatoes and other Thanksgiving-y things. MOTHER said he shouldn't have done that and we all ordered Chinese instead, and I'm sure hell is frozen right now, for MOTHER paid for all of it. Brother slipped me a $50 without MOTHER knowing, saying something like, "She'll spend all this money on beer, you need to get out of this house. Go start a stash somewhere, save this money, use it to pay for a car, college fund, things like that. But you need to leave." I can understand his pity. Despite my hatred of pity, I understand it. He's right. I do need to leave. Too bad he had to cut our conversation short. As soon as MOTHER called him down, he turned into the good boy, mommy's little angel. I swear he's two-faced.
Friday 26th
Ryan left for Cali today. He's got a class on Monday, and his girlfriend wants him at their house on Sunday for dinner. MOTHER suggested bringing her by next time. He said with a bright smile, "I will!" and drove away with a panicked face, happy to have left the crazy house. Can't say as I blame him. I wouldn't want to bring my significant other here either. Well at least he brought some hope with that $50 dollars, and food for about the next 5 days, so long as the house-boat of a MOTHER doesn't wolf it down.
Monday 30th
Had an appointment with my therapist today. Since it has been two weeks since I first started my entries, she said I needed a "check-up". For what? Do I have some terminal disease? I almost wish that I did. Back to my "check-up", she took away my journal with a bubbly enthusiasm of a fresh made and opened soda. I damn near gagged. But her wall of plastered happiness fell upon sight, and she scanned the page, a robot with red lasers for eyes taking in every word processing it. She handed it back, the "Barbie doll" smile back on her face. "I see" she squealed. "I need you two write for another two weeks before I can really help you." Great, just what I needed. No answers.
Tuesday December 1st
MOTHER found my stash of cans and yelled at me for it. I yelled right back telling her how she won't pay for me to join the swim team, or anything else I want to do. She asked me what I was talking about. I told her about my "Swim Fund" and how I have been gathering these cans to exchange in for money and how I have $80 dollars for the pay-to-play fee. She got off the couch and asked me in her quiet tone to go show her the money. I asked why. She gave me the excuse of, "Because I am your mother and I said so." I HATE that excuse by the way. I said make me. She actually pushed me out of the way to (and I still can't believe she did this) run up to my bedroom to find the money. I kept it in the jewelry box Grandma Maria gave me. She loots through my room, and ends up finding it. We have a bit of a brawl, with me trying to grab it out of her pudgy, dough-like fingers. I end up taking it, and putting on my best line-backer imitation, run anywhere away from her. She catches me before I have a good start on her, yanks me down to the ground by the ankle, and we roll around on the living room floor for a bit each struggling to get the cash for ourselves. I realize that the fireplace is lit, and before she can grab the money out of my hands –for by now I am pinned beneath her elephant weight- I throw the envelope of money into the flames. MOTHER howls at her loss, manages a base-ball style sliding run in front of the hearth, I watch with amusement as she burns herself trying in vain to retrieve the flaming cash; another scream of agony arises from her throat as the fire engulfs her hand.   During this whole act I have a moment to breathe before she glares at me and comes bulldozing towards me. I get up and run to my room, but I was two seconds too late. MOTHER catches me and yells in my face to the point of my face being speckled with saliva, "What in the name of all HELL did you do that for?" She wails. I look down at her now charred and blackened hand. I remember her yelling at me, but I don't remember exactly what she said. I remember feeling the sting of more than one blow, but I don't remember how many I took. I remember a couple to my stomach and one to my face, which is how I now own the lovely black shiner around my left eye. My arm and legs hurt, but I don't remember being hit there. I'm going to bed, but at least tomorrow is Mr. Whiteacres' birthday. Sometimes I think this life is really worth living…
Wednesday 2nd
I am only writing a little bit this morning as a last thoughts list. I think that this life isn't worth living anymore, for no-one will recognize me, or love me. I am sure that if I died, only the gravediggers and the pastor would be at my funeral. No I don't even think that I would have a funeral, not only do we not have the money, but MOTHER is too lazy to get her fat ass off the couch to arrange it. I probably wouldn't even have a casket, for that is FAR too expensive for my MOTHER's impoverished, drunk-as-a-skunk existence.  I would be burned, and chucked in the dirt, no marker, no grave, like a dead flower, thrown away and forgotten. I heard on the morning news that Mr. Whitacre was caught smokin dope at school and was fired, even though it's his damn BIRTHDAY. Life isn't worth it, not worth it, not worth it. I have found just the spot to hang myself in school, and some old rope in our garage, because life isn't worth it anymore.
I throw down the diary of my now hospitalized client, "Rose Maria Vanqueros."  I put my head in my hands, listening to the press outside my door, screaming for my attention, despite the fact that I have had hardly any time to read through her journal to try and find answers that Rose left behind. I had barely had time to read the statement from the school about how she tried to kill herself. She hung a rope from the highest point in the bathroom stall, and just as she was about to jump off, one of the janitors walked in and noticed the rope, and pushed the door open, because Rose forgot to lock it. I hear noises outside my door and watch as my frustrated secretary pushed through the media to come talk with me.
"Mrs. Timbralton, we have to answer these moguls. They won't leave until you come out with at least some sort of statement for them to report." I look up at her wearily, dragging my face down with my hands.
"Cindy, I have hardly had the time to look over her journal, or even read the report the school filed."
"They need answers, Mrs. Timbralton." Cindy remained defiant, but I could understand her point. Sighing, I walked up prepared to say that Rose was now safe at Monarch Mental Hospital, and would be staying there until her mind became a little more stable. I checked my appearance in my mirror, and putting on my therapist smile, walk out to greet the anxious press.