The Postcard: Chapter One
Certainly Cleo didn’t know. Nor Colin. Or Alex. Not even my boyfriend, Grant, knew. I didn’t for seventeen years.
Neither did my alcoholic of a mother knew. Or my doctor. I was the fake sort of depressed. Not like the I’m-so-sad-I’m-going-to-pour-my-feelings-out-to-MTV-and-then-get-a-TV-show-made-after-me.
No, I was clinically depressed. It sunk in after my dad died and my mother turned to vodka and bourbon. That’s when my big sister, Summer, ran away and was found at the bottom of the Pacific. Dead.
I could still remember her lifeless eyes and once-blond hair jet black, and her tan skin pale. That’s when I shut myself in my room, not eating, or sleeping. Not listening to the pleading cries of Grant trying to feed me something. And the Grant had to die. He had to go into his Chevrolet at night, not knowing about the blind spot in his car.
I turned a blind eye on life and turned a whiter shade of pale. I let my hair grow down to my waist. I didn’t care about my friends anymore than I cared about myself. I didn’t care about what happened to me.
I looked down at the glistening waves.
Was this what Summer did? Did she free herself from her clinical depression? Did she? I loosened the fading denim jacket from my shoulders. I wouldn’t need it where I was going.
I would leave it here, as a reminder to anyone that cared that I would never be happy with my life.
“Kurt…” I turned my head as my nick-name was uttered. I looked at the tall boy that stood behind me, a wry smile on his face. His brown hair was covering a jade eye. His leather jacket fitted his figure perfectly. I didn’t know him. He was no older than eighteen.
“Go away.” I spat, looking down at the blue/green waves and my blue hi-tops.; “You’re making a mistake.” His voice rang out again.
“You’re not my mother.” I whispered.
“No. I look after you.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this, Kurt. Your mother will miss you.”
Would she? Would she really mourn? Or would she stay at home and drown herself in more liquor? I turned around. He wasn’t there. There was a yellowing paper on the ground. I picked it up. It was a postcard. A picture of a dark graveyard. I pushed my dark hair away from my face as I read it. Don’t