When I got home after our trip to Los Angeles, I sense an anxiety attack coming. As soon as I went inside the house, my knees started shaking as my legs completely collapsed on the floor. I hear the voices of Zania and Clarissa rushing towards my side as they help me up from the hardwood floor.

The panic arises in my stomach, like a set of fireworks about to ignite the night sky. A tension formed in my face and limbs shortly after. My breathing began to become shallow and heavy until I felt like my heart was beginning to pound faster inside my chest.

As I rushed up the stairs towards my bedroom, I let go of Clarissa and Zania's grip on my arms. I fall into my bed, curling over my warm blankets like a cheese curl, as tears begin to escape from my eyes like a waterfall.

"Get her some water and her pillbox," I hear Clarissa say as Zania's footsteps become faint as soon as she leaves the room.

As I constantly cry in my bed, Clarissa caresses my back. I hear the footsteps of Zania again and then I see her approaching us with a glass of water and a small white box. Clarissa grabs the pillbox from Zania and opens the F box. F for Friday.

When I feel anxious, depressed, or have a panic attack, my doctor prescribed me some anti-depressants such as benzodiazepine to take.

Within the box, Clarissa grabs the pill and passes it over to me. I try to reach for it and then I swallowed. After this, Zania gives me a glass of water. I try to at least get a grip of my breathing as I let the medication do its part.

"That's it," Clarissa says, "Remember what Dr. Gregory told you. Deep breaths, okay?" she continues as she breathes along with me.

As seconds quickly turned into minutes, I began to feel a little calm and steady. I wipe away such tears as if nothing had happened. I'm looking at both Clarissa and Zania, watching them exchange their gazes.

Then, I slowly find myself falling asleep after feeling exhausted.

❀

"What happened?" Zania asks as she puts a hand on her waist, demanding an answer. "Where have you been? Savannah told me she hasn't seen you all day."

"I just went somewhere," I say, "I needed to find answers."

"Answers?" They both question me in unison.

"I went to an art gallery in Los Angeles," I say, ignoring the look in their eyes, "I saw my mom's painting there and I just wanted to look at it again."

When I look up, I see Clarissa's eyebrows drawn together. Zania has a confused expression on her face.

"Can you leave us for a moment, Z?" Clarissa says. Zania excuses herself out of my room without another word as Clarissa sits on the bed beside me.

"Have you forgotten about what we have talked about with Dr. Gregory?" She asks me as I shake my head. "We already both agreed that it's best if you don't see those paintings. Now, look what happened to you."

For a second, I was silent but I say, "You don't even understand how much those paintings mean to me—to Elise."

She gave me a questioning look as she says, "Maybe I don't understand but we are just trying to keep you safe. We want you to at least feel better."

"What if I told you that I feel better whenever I look at my mom's paintings that you forbid me to look at?" I say to her, "Would you understand me then?"

"Maybe I still wouldn't," She says. She reaches for my hand and I let her squeeze it, "But why don't you explain it to me—the whole truth. So that I could at least try and understand you. If you don't tell me, how can you make me want to understand you?"

Clarissa's always right. After all, I owe it to her, to be honest after what she did. She was always there beside me, to help me conquer my battles.

Then I started explaining to her how I found out Elise writing notes in her bedroom and how I witnessed her hiding them behind the frames of mom's paintings. Clarissa didn't say anything but I knew she was slowly trying to understand me for what I was doing.

❀

Before going to school, I took my morning risperidone tablet. It's a pill prescribed for the treatment of schizophrenia. During the day and before I go to bed, I take it. It works sometimes, and sometimes it doesn't do its job. The pill is to help me think clearly to do regular daily activities, without having to have a psychotic episode, especially in public.

Before, I tried several pills, but this one was the only thing that normally worked. Other atypical antipsychotic drugs do not have much effect, but risperidone does its job from time to time.

I look at Ms. Wilson as she has the puzzling look on her face as she asks me, "You find it hard making friends?"

She looks at me and says that in a tone as if she were saying 'but you're a kid. It's easier to make friends when you're a kid' but in reality, it's not really. It's hard to make friends who would choose you over some rumor they overheard.

"I have a tendency of pushing people away from me," I say, "It became a habitual thing."

She intertwines her fingers, bringing both of her hands to the table and resting it. She opens her mouth and says, "But I have seen you and Aaren Walters recently."

Ah, Aaren Walters. The hallway kid and the only one who pointed out the suicide of my sister. My personal chauffeur and maybe a guy I would consider for such adventures as a companion.

"He's not a friend, really," I told her. "More like an acquaintance?"

"You say that as if you're not too sure," Ms. Wilson says, "Have you considered opening up to him?"

"I have," I say, thinking of the night I told him about the paintings and the day we went to Los Angeles, where I explained what I had in mind and everything about the notes.

"Then you've made a friend," She says, "Congratulations."

I shake my head, "It's not what you think," I say.

"I didn't exactly open up to him about my mental illness and I hope it stays that way—that it stays between us and the people who are aware of it."

She nods her head slowly, examining my face, "Our conversations do not leave this room. It stays inside this room. You don't have to worry about it," Ms. Wilson reassures me by smiling at me.

"Though," she continues, "May I ask why you don't want to open up to people about your schizophrenia?"

I didn't know how I would exactly explain it to her. For a moment, I thought about sharing my story with other people but the thought scared me.

"People already know too much," I said, "I don't want to hear my name being mentioned again."

I look at the clock and grabbed my bag that was sitting on the floor, "I'll see you next week, Tuesday," Ms. Wilson says.

I nod my head and smiled at her as I quickly left the office after our time ended. I decided to stop by my locker to grab a book for my next class. I suddenly thought about informing Savannah later, after school, about the upcoming trips I am hoping to make; to find those paintings and to get my sister's notes. Then I immediately thought about the last time we both had a disagreement over what I wanted to do.

Savannah did not approve of the idea of giving Elise a school remembrance ceremony. She said it wasn't the smartest thing I had in mind to know what Elise was like with other people that surrounded her. Savannah also said that the only thing I'd hear from people is them calling her names endlessly.

"Didn't know you're still around," I hear Janice's voice behind me.

I turn around and see her with her arms crossed to her chest. I sighed and turned back to face my locker.

I hear her scoff as she yanks my arm, "Have you not been taught to look at a person when they are talking?" she says, forcing me to look at her.

"Oh, that's right," She lets go of my arm aggressively. "You don't have your parents to teach you manners because THEY'RE DEAD!"

When she said that, I felt a spark of frustration inside me, but I swallowed my rage before I let it take over. Janice smirks as she aims a finger at my chest, pushing me violently until I was being pinned behind the locker.

"If I were you," she whispers into my ear. I sense the heat from her breath fanning my neck, leaving me uncomfortable, "I'd leave this place. I don't want to be remembered as a whore before and after I die."

After she says this, Janice smiles at me. My throat tightens and I begin to notice how short a breath I take. Suddenly, it brings me back to the moment when, after Elise passed away, I see people sticking notes on her locker. They were all calling her a slut instead of saying goodbye and how they missed her, and that she deserved to die.

Shortly after, there were voices in the corner of my ear, lurking. I dismiss the voices as they continue to rise, sounding louder and clearer for me to hear.

Lauren.

Kill yourself.

Die.

Bitch.

I push Janice away from me and the path she was blocking. I decided to sprint as my feet were dragging me away from her and away from the scene. I feel shivers began to trickle down my spine the moment the voices got louder.

I could sense the panic in my stomach beginning to grow. Within my head, the words are being echoed. I want them to slow down and vanish for me to recover, but they won't. As I pushed all of the muscles from my legs to shift and run, my vision begins to disorient. I head to the closest toilet I could find.

I enter an empty cubicle, closing the door behind me as I collapsed on the cold toilet floor, feeling my muscles tighten as I cover my ears and shut my eyes.

"Shut up, shut up!" I tell myself as I constantly shake my head, trying to get a hold of myself—of the reality.

Elise died because of you.

You helpless girl.

Kill yourself.

Kill. Yourself. Now.

I scream as loud as I know and feel, with my head, starting to throb in pain. My body is wracked with an onslaught of sobs and tears as I sit here all alone, wishing for this to be over.