Chapter Three

Chapter 3

The abrupt stop of the bus jolted Melanie awake. Her lashes flustered open, slowly accepting the bright afternoon rays. She had fallen asleep twice through out the entire ride. One, because of hunger and secondly, now, because the ride was finally over. They had arrived.

She was in Westbrook.

Raising her head and seating straight, she got ready to leave the bus.

"Hey." A familiar voice called. Melanie turned, meeting the young lady who helped her by exchanging their seats earlier, still seated beside her with a smile on her face. "You can call me anytime." With a raised brow, she lowered her gaze. It was then Melanie noticed the card in her hand, extended towards her.

Raising her gaze back up, Melanie stared in confusion. "Why are you giving me your card?"

"Just incase you need help again like before." The lady replied, a larger, knowing, smile on her face.

"I don't need help." Melanie responded, tone flat, standing up.

The lady stood also. "You do." She objected, quite sternly. "And that slight attack you had towards the smell of someone smoking cigarettes in the bus proved it."

She knew. "Fuck off." Melanie snapped, tone low. She picked her bags and began to walk away.

"Well, I don't want to fuck off. I want to help you." The persistent lady said behind her, following her as she got down the bus.

Annoyed, Melanie turned, glossy blue eyes shooting glares at the lady's hazel ones. "What the hell do you want from me?" She snapped, teeth gritted and tone lightly raised.

"I already told you, I want to help you." The lady responded, undeterred.

"Can't you understand that I don't need your help?" Frustrated and in need to get out of her sight, Melanie had to agree to whatever this never giving up lady wanted. "Give me the card." She agreed, voice low.

With bright eyes, the lady handed her the card. "If you really want to get out of that state you're in or need any help of the sort, just give me a call." She said, walking past Melanie and stepping away.

"Wait." Melanie halted her in her steps. "What's your name?" She asked curiously, turning to face the lady's rear. It was so odd as to why a mere stranger would want to help her out of her addiction. Even the people she knew didn't care so how come a stranger? It didn't sound right.

"Sabrina." She replied and left.

Still standing, Melanie read the card in her hands. It contained Sabrina's full name, occupation, number and address. Dr Sabrina Peters. Melanie read, curiously. Sabrina was a specialist, mostly in the psychiatry field. Melanie was a year younger. Sabrina was twenty-seven while she was twenty six. The address below was where she worked. Sabrina Peters specialist hospital.

"Holy shit." Melanie muttered, astonished. She owned her own fucking hospital. Melanie was totally beyond words, she was speechless.

"Wow." Was all that could breathe out of her lips.

"If you really want to get out of that state you're in or need any help of the sort, just give me a call."

Melanie looked at the card once again, thumbs playing with the smooth texture and sighed.

Strangers. Melanie thoughts played. With the encounter that transpired with Sabrina, that word had now lost it's meaning to her-- and maybe, just maybe--

She might've discovered a new one... Just might.

*

Melanie steps slowed with anxiety as she approached the front door of her house. The stairs she ascended on got draining on her thigh muscles as she rose. When she finally reached, she stood, out her front door, checking with her breaths and slowing down her anxiety.

Reaching for the door knob, she twisted and opened, stepping in, her luggage in hand. Closing the door shut, the first thing that invaded her nostrils was the scent of fresh chicken broth. Melanie hated chicken broth. She squinted her nose in disgust.

Ugh.

Moving forward, she made her way through the bare sitting room, which used to be full five years ago. A lot of pictures had been taken down-- and somethings had been sold. Their tv set was smaller, the former black large couch was now a faded grey smaller one. One thing stood significant to Melanie.

The family photo was gone.

What hung on the wall beside the clock was a picture of a women and her husband-- people she didn't recognise, though she tried to-- though she did.

Bile formed in her mouth and with the disgusted, revulsion she had with the chicken broth, she forced a gulp down her throat. It made her sick, terribly sick. Everything made her sick.

Looking away, she forced herself towards her bedroom, knowing she had to pass through the kitchen.

Halting halfway through and at the entrance of the kitchen, Melanie stared at the woman whose face was filled with excitement, lips with a large happy smile, cooking-- cooking what she hated.

Her throat worked. "Patricia." She called.

Patricia's former smile disappeared as her eyes recognised the young-- alike female standing with her luggage, figure slim-- almost malnourished-- eyes embedded with emotions no one could possibly decipher-- emotions she preferred to remain hidden. Her daughter.

"You came back." She said, voice bearing no emotion.

"I told you I was coming." Melanie reminded.

Patricia shrugged, nonchalantly. "I forgot. It's me and Dave's anniversary today. I was-- am busy."

Melanie felt a knife pierce her weakened heart. I forgot. "Congratulations." She said without a smile. "How long is it now?"

"Five years."

"Cool." Melanie's eyes watered. "Cool." She mumbled, looking away from the stranger that caused her eyes to be on the brink of tears.

"What are you doing back here anyways?" Patricia asked, reaching for a plate to dish out her perfectly prepared meal, she knew her husband would love. "Aren't you supposed to be in college? I thought you still had a year left."

I did. "I've finished. Just a week ago."

"Hm."

Hm?

"How did you come home?"

"Bus."

Patricia's forehead wrinkled. "What of your car?"

Melanie cleared her throat. "I... I had to pay some debts."

"What debts?" Patricia questioned.

Melanie heaved. "I owed some people money and I had to pay back so I sold the car."

"Money for what? Drugs right?"

Melanie shrank. "I tried... I am. I just didn't... I didn't know..."

"Save it." Patricia snapped, eyes shooting flashes at Melanie. Disgusted flashes. "Dave doesn't earn so much pay but he still gives you money every month. And then you just wasted it on drugs. Drugs!" Melanie flinched with her tone, her gaze lowered. "Dave is not your father Melanie. Stop being dependent like he's your blood. He's not! You're twenty six! You have no job, nothing! Everyone gets tired of you with time. Dave is. I am."

"Everyone gets tired of you with time. Dave is. I am."

"I'm sorry." Was all Melanie could say.

"What's the need?" Melanie raised her gaze. "You'll still return back to your ways."

Too much. It was all too much for Melanie to handle. The words were too much. The heartache was too much. She needed to breathe.

Was this her mother?

Didn't she always realize that her words sent her back to pain and then to drugs?

Was Dave all she cared about?

With a struggle, she fought to keep all her emotions away-- she chose to allow the pain eat her away from within.

"It will soon be night time. We'll be having dinner immediately Dave gets back. Join us if you like." Patricia said, turning away without sympathy or care. She was used to it all and tired of it too.

She was tired of a disgrace of a daughter.

Melanie was simply a stranger-- and Melanie had come to accept it, with an enormous amount of pain.

" I hate chicken broth. You should know that." Melanie wanted to say but she held her tongue back. It wouldn't be of any use.

"Happy anniversary." She said before walking away to her room.

Her chest heaved tightly. She hated everything-- the smell of it all drove her apart.

"I need air. I need an escape from this hell."

Pushing her bedroom door, she walked in, closing the door sharply and relaxing on it, taking in quick long breaths. Her room did smell but at least not of chicken broth. That was enough. It was all she needed.

Her room smelt of dust, mostly, but then there were others-- she couldn't still figure it out. It wasn't healthy-- it was horrid but it was better.

Dumping her bags aside, she moved, shoes moving on broken glass. Nothing in this room was touched. It was the same as she left it five years old-- distorted and broken. The broken glasses symbolized when her depression drove her apart... Caused her to nearly die. Her bed was also filled with several pieces, laying messily.

She didn't clean it up. She left me to come back and meet it the same way-- to see my shame.

Melanie clutched her chest. Gradually, and rather fast she was falling apart. She hated emotional pain. She couldn't bare it. It was the main thing that made her crave drugs.

"I shouldn't have come back." And then came the tears, again, threatening to fall.

"No!" Her thoughts screamed. She knew this would happen when they met. She knew more wounds would be inflicted when they talked. She knew and she let it happen so why shed tears?

Grabbing a piece of shattered glass from the bed, she began tightening her fingers around it, not stopping till the fragile sharp edges came in contact with her skin, digging into her flesh, accepting the pain that made her wince, not letting go until her palm faded into white and blood dripped.

That was what brought her back, that was what got rid of the emotional pain. Physical pain.

When it was done, she proceeded to the bathroom, going straight to the sink. Turning on the tap, water splashed on her bloody palm and she let the red stained glass fall from her palms into the sink.

Melanie watched as the blood washed away, and how the pain never went away but still simmered down-- a little.

She watched her whole, becoming life fall and get washed away as the water cleansed away the blood. She watched her life, soul, again, drip away from her. She watched-- she watched the last piece of hope, the hope of her redemption, drip away.

All she saw was a stranger, and it echoed. It simply echoed.

And as much as she tried-- as much as she looked deeper, she couldn't find Melanie. She was gone.