Page 50 of Sad Girl Hours

Chapter Fifty

Saffron

I’ve been home for five days.

My parents have said about fifty words total to me in that time.

I’ve not eaten for – I forget how long.

I’ve not opened my curtains. I don’t even know what the weather’s doing outside. I’ve heard faint sounds of rain, but that’s all I know.

I thought last January was the worst I’d ever felt. Turns out it’s got nothing on this.

Every time I get low, even though I’m always utterly convinced that I have sunk to the bottom of this black pit, the ground will open up, making me plummet even further down.

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 our walks 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 been preparing 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. Caring too 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 out quite 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 my not 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’t ever mistake 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 ungrateful bitch .”

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?”

“Oh, this is a beautiful house, yes. And I’m aware of the privilege I have in a lot of ways.

It makes me feel even more guilty sometimes, even though I know that guilt is worth absolutely nothing to anyone.

But the feeding, clothing, letting me sleep inside …

they’re what all kids should have. That’s not love. ”

I suddenly remember what Nell said once – how if I’d never felt loved by my parents then they did neglect me, even if I never went hungry.

I put that away that day because I didn’t want to think about it.

I didn’t want to hate what I have even more.

But I do. I do hate it. I hate the fact that I’ve never, not once, made them proud.

But I think I’m starting to realise something.

I never will.

I can’t make someone be something they’re so determined not to be.

The tears come back in full force. “Just leave me alone,” I say.

To her credit, she waits a few seconds before she turns round and shuts the door behind her.

I can’t do it. I can’t make people love me. I’ve been trying for years and it’s never once worked. I can’t do it .

I type a message into my phone:

And then I turn round, face the wall and cry harder than I’ve ever cried before, until my head is aching so much that it feels as though it’s been split open. My entire body feels leaden and bruised, and my pillow is soaked right the way through.

I wake up at about eleven the next day, vaguely aware of how empty I feel. I can’t tell if it’s the not eating or everything that happened yesterday.

My curtains are still open, the way Mum left them.

The light, while jarring, does make things feel moderately less intense.

I know that getting vitamin D is important for me.

Just like how I know eating well, being out in the fresh air, drinking enough water – all of the basic things – are important too.

It’s frustrating that the pressure to do these things often feels insurmountable, even though if I could do them, I’d probably feel a whole lot better.

A few more hours pass. I don’t know what I do in them really, besides lie here, stuck in a loop.

I keep thinking about how I should be going back to Lancaster.

I need to be there to go to the meeting on Monday so I don’t get kicked out, and I need to be there to support Vivvie at her showcase.

She’s been working so hard, and I’d been planning to film bits of it so I could promote her work online and help her get the attention she deserves.

But I don’t know how I can leave this room.

I haven’t packed anything. I haven’t thought about what to say to my tutor.

I can’t tell the truth because then what if the university think I’m too much of a liability to stay on?

What if they think – possibly rightly – that this same thing will happen again next year, in my final year, and I won’t be able to write my dissertation or pass my exams?

The two biggest blocks in my head are the idea of being in the same room as Nell and seeing how much she must hate me now, and the thought of having to face another five hours trapped in the car with my parents.

Even the idea of it makes panic rise like bile in my throat.

It’s an oxymoron, I know, because if I don’t go in the car with them, then I’m stuck here with them maybe forever.

It’s an objectively much worse scenario but my brain’s not being particularly great at latching on to objectivity and rationality right now.

I’m ruminating on this thought in particular when I hear someone calling my name.

At first, I think I’m hearing things. My dad’s out and it doesn’t sound like my mum’s voice. Or not at first anyway. Then it is her voice, very raised, yelling something about trespassing and breaking and entering.

I sit up, noticing something new on the driveway through the window. I turn slowly to look at it.

I blink at what I’m seeing for a good few seconds.

I’d recognise that ancient Mini anywhere.