CHARLOTTE NOA BELLAMY
i’ve no idea what i’m talking about
i'm trapped in this body and can’t get out
Hey there, glad you could join us. So first thing's first, what do we call you?Charlotte Bellamy—Charlotte
Noa Bellamy, if we’re being formal. Bellamy’s my dad Mark’s last name; they thankfully didn’t see much sense in passing on Robert’s “Smith,” because how many fucking
Smiths are there in this world? Noa is Robert’s doing; that’s his mom’s name—my grandmother, though she died when I was two or something. Well,
Noelle, technically, but how many “ell”s does a person need in their name? Hell, I could have been Michelle Noelle Bellamy, and what the fuck kind of dignity would I have had then? Sometimes, I think my dads are smarter than I give them credit for. Sometimes. A lot of the time, I think they’re fucking idiots.
Okay, got it. And how old are you, if you don't mind me asking?I’m
seventeen, eighteen in February. When I’ll be legal and everything. Jesus. I feel like I’ve been an adult for ages, but I guess I need that one extra birthday to make it “real.” And I don’t even mean that I’m an “old soul” or some bullshit; I’m
not, I’m youth incarnate, fucking responsibility, not living towards any kind of real tomorrow. But adulthood’s when you stop trusting the world, stop trusting that someone else will sort it out for you. When you’re totally, completely disillusioned; when all the fairy dust melts away; And the dust fell away years ago, for me. In any case, I’m a
senior now, and unless I pull some kind of magician act, doesn’t look like I’ll be college-bound any time soon. Addiction and a worthless senior fall aren’t exactly “hooks” on a resume, last time I checked. Not that I’d even know what the fuck to do with myself at college. Same bullshit I’m doing here, really. Living. Breathing. Killing each day; living for the next, then realizing that one sucks just as bad as the one before. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Mhm and, now don't take this the wrong way, but are you a guy or a girl?I’m a girl, dumbshit. Come on, I know I’m not overly endowed or anything, but the hair and clothes should be a tip-off, don’t you think?
And are you straight, gay or...?I like guys. Well, actually, romantically, I don’t
like guys at all; I just want them and sometimes love them and generally find myself lusting after them in some sense. But for romantic purposes, at least—I’m not talking friendship; guys make better friends than girls, ninety-nine percent of the time—most of them are shit. But I
fuck guys, how’s that? And sure, I guess, I’d let a guy rope some other chick into bed once or twice for kicks and giggles, but even then it’d just be for the thrill. I can barely tolerate girls as
people, let alone fathom doing anything more with them. Yeah, raised by two gay men, I was brought up on the “spectrum” philosophy, which is all well and good—but I’m pretty damn firmly on one end of that spectrum. No grey area for me. Chicks suck.
Have we met before? You look so familiar!This art teacher I had last summer wouldn’t shut the fuck up about how much I reminded him of a young
Kate Moss. Apparently he discovered his great love of the
figure by drawing from one of her photos. Who knows. I’m pretty sure people see one skinny blonde toking on something or other and figure we’re all the same. But don’t get all excited—I’m not about to bare
my tits to you just because I have similar features as a chick who’s topless more often than not. “Heroin chic,” I may be; “nude model,” I most certainly am fucking not. Also, I don’t do coke. Or didn’t. Much.
Excellent. Now, for the benefit of our readers, how would you describe your appearance?See, when I rattle off the facts—tall, skinny, blonde—you’re going to start thinking I’m some kind of fucking Barbie-doll, sorority girl, bleached-blonde California bimbo, and let me assure you, I am
not. The blonde is all natural, thanks for doubting, not that any amount of bleach can mimic a natural blonde. I’ve got highlights so pale that sometimes I freak and think I’m going grey, though most of my hair’s a pretty normal, light-ish, darker-when-wet type of blonde. It’s messy, too, just kind of a tumble of waves falling all over the place. Straight, if I work at it, which I usually don’t; ringlets, if I curl it, which I do even less. It’s a bedhead, honestly, but I like it like that. I’ve got green eyes; that’ one’s easy. Green as green can be, none of this “hazel” or “turquoise” bullshit. Straight green, like…God, I don’t know, do I have to give you a fucking metaphor? Green like grass on a foggy day, how’s that? Satisfied? I mean, come on, just use
your fucking eyes, why don’t you? I’m not
that tall that you can’t
see my eyes from there. I’m, what, 5’8? 5’7? Something like that, though in heels, I can get a decent amount taller. Some tall girls always bitching about how hard it sucks to be taller than others, taller than guys when they wear heels, but I don’t see what the big shitshow is all about. So what if dresses and skirts fall a little higher on my legs? I’ve got good legs; I see no problem showing them off. They’re long, even if they are kind of scrawny, like the rest of me, like I’ve been since I was a kid. It was like I was growing faster than my weight could keep up, and it never really
did catch up. I’m not freakishly skeletal or anything, there’s not just all that much meat on my bones. At 5’8, I’m, what, 120 pounds? Less, maybe? Who the hell knows; I don’t weigh myself often at all.
And if a stranger had to spot you in a crowd what should they look out for?Clothes tend to fall pretty nicely on me, though my tits aren’t all that big, so sometimes filling out a bustier or something is a challenge. Not that I wear them all that often. I rock a crop top better than most chicks around here, that’s for sure, so all those double-Ds can bite me. Yeah, lots of cropped or cut-up shirts, or sometimes bigger, flowier ones that kind of swallow me up, though I’ll temper those with skintight leggings or shorts. When it’s warm, I like the skimpy sundress look, but in the fall and winter I’m all about boots and jeans, leggings, though I still can’t get past the tank top fetish, even in the winter. They just fall better on me than any other type of top. Sweaters make me look like a fucking J Crew model or something, which I most certainly am not. Lace-up boots are a wardrobe staple, as are heels—not stiletto pumps; I’m not some fucking debutante, but ankle boots, lace-ups, those kinds of heels. I don’t have any tattoos—
yet; I’ve got one all planned for my eighteenth birthday, because shocker of all shockers, I
don’t have a fake ID. Never needed one, seeing as alcohol’s never been my drug of choice, nor have clubs been my preferred scene. Anyway, back on topic—yeah, no tattoos yet. Pierced ears, the standard two, and second hole on the left ear, where I usually just wear a stud. Not so into body mutilation. This body’s not worth it.
What's the first thing this stranger would notice about you?Jesus, how the hell would I know that? You think I sit around staring at myself in a fucking mirror all day? I don’t
know. They wouldn’t notice much at all, if they were just
looking. I don’t emote all that much when I’m just standing around bored. If anything, I just look bored. If they came up and started
talking to me, though, they might notice some stuff. Like how I’m blunt. Not frank, exactly, I’m not one of those people who pride themselves on unabashed honesty or anything like that—but I’m blunt. With friends or otherwise, I’m not wrapping up my words in little froo-froo packages of fluff and meaningless bull. I say what’s relevant, what’s applicable, what’s necessary. I don’t talk just to talk. And if you’re some random stranger coming up to me for no fucking reason, you’d better have something damn good to say to me, otherwise you’re in for an ice-cold reception. I save the snark for people I actually
like. As for my soft side…well, let’s just say that there are a select few who’ve seen it, and I’m not planning on expanding that number any time soon.
Let's just say this stranger decides to observe you for a bit - any habits or quirks they might notice?I cannot sit the fuck still. It’s the most godawful annoying habit ,I know, and it’s not like I’m all hyped up on enthusiasm or anything—I’m just a fidgeter. I have the attention span of a goldfish on crack, and it comes through. I’m lighting a cigarette, or spinning an ashtray, or messing with my hair, braiding it, pulling it up, pushing it away, or I’m crossing, recrossing my legs, or playing with my NA chip, or doing any number of fidgety things a person
could do. Before, it’d happen only when I was too-long sober, too-long
real, and weed could settle me down, make me gloriously loose and relaxed and at peace. Now, I’m clean all the time, just perpetually on edge, waiting for that high that’ll never come. Yeah, I can run myself to the breaking point, collapse in exhaustion, not able to move a single muscle, but even then it’s not the same. Fact is, I’m tearing at the seams of my fucking skin, and it shows.
So this creepy stranger, what would their first impression of your character be?That I’m here, but not
here That my head’s not quite in the game. That I’m looking for something else, something better, something
more. That I’m in limbo. That I’m living wide—
too wide—awake. Painfully present, but God,
so discontent. Trapped in someone else’s pathetic body; stuck with their susceptible brain. I’m fidgeting, I’m running, I’m flying, I’m doing
anything to break free from this godawful curse of humanity, and if a person or situation nor sensation isn’t helping me get higher, all I have for them is a lifetime’s worth of disdain, condescension, hatred. I’m hateful. Angry. Squeaky-clean, free of anything harder than nicotine or adrenaline, but angry. Angry at myself for being weak enough to break under addiction; angry at the people who can use and use and never crack; angry at those who expect me to be all sunshine and fucking rainbows now that I’ve joined their pure-ass ranks. Angry at the world, at whatever greater power there is out there, for sticking me in this body, this
life, when I so desperately want something more. And angry at myself, again, for not knowing what that something more
is. So, sport, you got any hobbies?“Hobbies?” What, like
woodworking or something? Jesus, who the hell do you think I am? Have you not been paying attention; not caught on to the whole burnout act yet? I don’t
do fucking origami or sculpture or needlepoint. Well—I draw, I guess that’s something, and I’m sort of decent at it when I put my mind to it, which isn’t all that often. Usually just charcoal sketches; I suck at painting. Can’t handle all that color at my disposal. So there’s that. I run, too…I’m actually captain of track, now, though that’s more a matter of seniority than anything else—trust me, I don’t campaign for it like some fucking brownnoser. I just like to run, I’m not record-breakingly fast or anything. I’m a sprinter. Short sprints, in theory, though in reality I like to go for miles; sprint til my muscles give out and it takes me hours to catch my breath. Like I said, I’m not exactly the athletic department’s model participant or anything. There was a brief, brief phase last winter, when I thought I’d take sports more seriously, be an
involved student like a good little girl, and I joined lacrosse—but hell, I’m the farthest fucking thing from a laxtitute. I’ll stick to pounding the pavement. Anyway, lately, my main “extracurricular” has been thrills. Heights. Getting high, without getting high. Pushing my body to its limits. Driving a hundred miles an hour on a “borrowed” car; cliff-diving; spending hours at raves, losing myself in the crowd; shooting targets; running for
hours. Seeing how far I can fuck with my limits, fuck with nature, fuck with reality. Pushing harder, going further, til I leave myself behind.
Interesting! And what about the things you like the most?For me, it’s all about that something more. Something bigger than me; something that can sweep me up and make me a part of its grandeur. Some of that stuff—it’s actually mundane. Normal. Like friends, the good kind, the kind that takes you as you are and doesn’t try to change you, the kind that, when you’re with them, you stop being just
you. Those are the kinds of friends I keep around. They don’t bog you down with smalltalk—hell, you don’t even have to talk at all, sometimes, with friends like those. You can just
be, and somehow, being with another person is easier than being just you. That’s the same reason sex is so good. And I’m no whore; I don’t fuck the first guy who looks my way—far from it. I’ve had two relationships, a couple of flings, and a few one night stands, all of which were totally deliberate; totally served that carnal purpose: to be you, and another, at once, joined in that perfect moment, no matter how well you do or don’t know each other. The
relationship itself, for me—that’s not all that different from a friendship, if it’s done right: coexisting, feeding off each others’ energy, just having that person
there. Because I treat my friendships like relationships—I put my trust in you, to get to see
me, as I really am, that vulnerability. A relationship—a
good relationship—is that, plus the sex. Sex, though, it’s its own category. Sex, it’s that perfect drug, the perfect mixed bag, ecstasy and dissociation and ascension. That ultimate high, ultimate thrill. Because really, that’s what I want: to fly, high. By any means. Not just drugs; not by drugs at all, anymore. There’s music, for one, all sorts of music—I don’t have that one genre I’m all hoity-toity about, hell, I don’t even know the
names of half of what I listen to, classical and electronic and everything in between. It’s those perfect songs, though, the ones that make you pause whatever you’re doing, the ones that sweep you off your feet, up, away, into this alternate universe where octaves and bass drops are the ultimate form of communication. It’s not like I even aspire to have an ounce of musical talent—it’s just light transcended, light turned into sound, just waves and waves falling on the shore of your mind, crashing over sand dunes and reeds, forming this perfect, heavenly harmony. It takes your breath away—like looking at the most exquisite landscape, or feeling winter’s first harsh wind on your face. Those moments when you feel so completely caught up in the spin of the world that your soul just might get ripped out of your body and thrown into the mix.
That’s what I live for;
that’s what I love. People think I’m all blasé, all removed, all aloof, unaffected—
bullshit. I’ve just got high standards for happiness. That’s what happens when you become on something artificial to give you that thrill: it takes one hell of a natural high to produce the same result.
And there's gotta be things you don't like too, right?I hate reality. What, you couldn’t deduce that from everything I’ve already said? I hate the day-to-day banalities of life; the schedules, the forced, stilted way of living: wake up, eat, learn, live, laugh, love, sleep. I hate feeling like the world fucked me over by not giving me a brain that’s happy pretending that bullshit is enough. And I don’t like the people who are content with it, who’re happy eating their salads and going to their cheer practices and falling into storybook romances. Why do you
think that the majority of people I consider my friends are fuck-ups, druggies, thrill-seekers like me? We’re all restless, trapped, looking for that something more. And when someone like that turns their back on me—leaves, dies, changes,
anything—I can’t deal. Can’t take the betrayal. Because it’s not just a betrayal of
me, it’s a betrayal of
us, and
us is so much more than
we, individually, and it’s fucking murder to blow that off. I’ve got this unnerving pattern, too, where the people I take the longest to let in die, or leave, or leave
me. And I’m done with it. They dropped me, well, here’s me dropping the entire fucking world.
Watch me. I’m stronger on my own.
Great! So are you keeping any secrets? Don't worry, I swear I won't tell.I’m doing a good job of it, aren’t I, pretending everything’s all fucking dandy? Like I’m
totally stoked to have this
glorious opportunity to reclaim the world as mine, fit myself into its rhythm,
rejoice in its natural beauty? Like I’m thanking
God for
saving me, giving me another chance? Yeah, well. Those tiny moments, tiny natural highs I keep raving about? They barely make a dent. Barely lift me out of this grey, concrete
funk of an existence I’m stuck living. And I Know for sure it won’t last. Yeah, I’m clean now, clean as a whistle, straight as an arrow, fresh-faced, bright-eyed—
for now. Now, when everyone’s on my case so hard that I couldn’t crack if I wanted to. Now, when the memory of Allison dying and me losing myself is too strong to deny. But the truth is, I know the memory will fade. I know the therapy and check-ins and phone-calls and sponsors will ease up. I know that I can only run so far, climb so high, before it stops being enough. And when that happens, I know I’ll slip. Crack. Fall. And the truth is, I’m fucking terrified.
My lips are sealed. Now, what would you say is your best quality?I’m quick. Not booksmart, and yeah, obviously I’ve made some shit life decisions—but I can match you, word for word, snark for snark, fuck for fuck. Quick. Sharp. I like the last word, and more often than not, I get it. The people who can challenge me on that—those are the ones I respect.
And your worst? C'mon, no one's perfect, kiddo.My body—my
brain—let me down. Betrayed me. It’s
weak. Susceptible. Addictive. Hooked, so easily. And yeah, I love the thrills, the rush, the flight—but I hate that I need it. That I’m this pathetic junkie, when so many people, they can play in the surf and not drown. It’s in my genes, hardwired into my DNA, and I’ve never hated anything more.
Now how about the other people in your life, let's talk family.Well, there’s my dads. Mark Bellamy and Robert Smith. They’ve been together for something like twenty-five years, and got married for real the second it was legal. Mark’s the tall, all-business type, straight-forward, always wanting reasons, answers. Born and raised in New York, supposedly on his way to CEO of one some life insurance company. He met Robert, who’s a photographer, in 1979, Washington Square Park. Robert’s the “mom” of the two, the one who made me my lunches, braided my hair, took me shopping, and put me in art classes. Mark’s more the one who’ll give me a firm hand when I need it; who’ll lay down the law when it’s necessary, like it or not. But honestly, they’re both these liberal, progressive types, which is why we’ve never really had a falling out, per se. When the drugs were really bad, I’d stop calling, and that’d drive them crazy, but they’re always there for me. I’m lucky, that way. Then again, their
laissez-faire attitude is probably why my understanding of what it means to be “free” is so fucked up. It’s not their fault. They can’t help that I come from a heroin-addled egg and probably equally drugged-up sperm, that I came out of some pathetic shell of a human being, that really, all niceties aside, I’m a crack baby. It’s not their fault, it’s hers. Allison. She’s not my family; never was. She’s a junkie who drugged herself to death, and passed the instinct on to me.
Any pets?No. I think it’s bullshit to fall head over heels for an
animal. And besides, if I want to be free so bad, why should I go imprisoning some other creature?
You're doing great, just a few more questions. So where are you from?I was born in Woodstock, New York, and grew up there. Mark commuted to the city for work, Robert had a pretty successful gallery in town, and I was there through middle school. When Mark got relocated, we moved to San Francisco—that was when I was fifteen, already done with a year at Hallows Edge. Sold the house in Woodstock for an apartment in downtown San Fran. I’m not complaining. I’m much more a west coast girl, I think, anyway.
Definitely not a small town chick; Hallows Edge has proven that much.
I see, cool. So how come you ended up at HEA?That’s a damn good question. I sure as hell don’t know what I’m still doing here. Something about how it’s my comfort zone, and how changing the environment right now, in this “fragile time,” could “trigger” a “relapse.” Bull. Being surrounded by idiots—or, if they’re not idiots, druggies, reincarnations of my so-called former self—is
hardly productive. I’ve outgrown this place; I outgrew it the second I came back. I came for ninth grade, just off my very first rehab stint, all eager-beaver, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed. Totally
thrilled to be here; totally
happy to make friends with every fucking stranger who looked my way; totally
stoked to fall in love. After I left for San Fran in tenth grade and came back in the middle of eleventh, though—God, I don’t know, maybe it’s that I grew, or changed, or that the people around me did, but I wasn’t happy. No, it wasn’t all bad—actually, there were a few months there where I was pretty damn happy—but the people making me that way were the exception to the rule. And anyway, the one who made me
really stop caring about the imbeciles around me, that’s more than over. Now, I’m stuck here. Marooned in a small town of smaller minds, and I’ve got no one to blame but my stupid, naïve, sixteen-year-old self.
Almost done. So anything else we should know about you?I was born on February 15, 1995, to one Allison Stewart. She was sixteen, pregnant by her dealer, and, despite what she might have told my dads and the adoption agency, she was not—read,
not—one hundred percent clean. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was born with an extra finger or second head or inability to see the color blue. Nothing
nearly that obvious. Nothing really, at all, until I had to go and activate the instincts. In any case, that’s when I was born. In Palo Alto, California, all white-blond and big-eyed, and was safely whisked off by Robert and Mark, back to Woodstock.
We lived there for the first fifteen years of my life, and I never had a single complaint. Well—that’s not entirely true; it’s not like I was some completely zen kid and had a magnificent transformation. I was always a little difficult growing up. Not rebellious; that stuff came later, even though none of what I’ve done was
ever a direct act of rebellion. I’m serious. You probably don’t believe I’m capable of loving anyone at this point after hearing all of this, but hear me when I tell you that I love my fathers more than anyone, and I know that without them, I’d be a hell of a lot worse off than I am now. They never questioned adopting me; not when I was two years old and prefaced every sentence with the word “no;” not when I was five and accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to make tea; and even now, after I’ve spent two sessions in rehab, they’ve never once said that they regret me. They’re my rocks, and they gave me the best childhood a person could have. If we’re talking nature versus nurture, my flaws are my nature. They nurtured me; they
still nurture me, and they’re not responsible for me being so fucked up.
Like I said, I wasn’t a quiet kid. I was constantly in motion, constantly doing
something, and swinging from highs to lows at the drop of a hat. I wasn’t the kind of kid who was content sitting on a couch with a book all day—far from it. I needed constant stimulation. I was always finger-painting, or spying on neighbors, or climbing trees and refusing to come down. There was never a quiet moment—that’s the beauty of childhood; you can just
play and do whatever the hell you want, and it’s
okay. It’s
allowed. No one’s going to lock you up for having too much fun; in fact, they’ll encourage it. I think that’s why, when I got a little older and realized there were real responsibilities—things that weren’t so fun—I could hardly stand it.
I made it longer than you’d think. I was fourteen by the time I let someone talk me into playing the grown-up way. The illegal way. The way that was done in the elementary school playground at midnight, five of us, about to start high school, huddled like puppies around a single, sloppily-rolled joint. I didn’t even like it at first. It took me three tries to inhale without coughing up a lung, and another four to actually feel it. But I was determined. I’d talked my fathers into boarding school and was regretting it, scared of leaving them, of leaving the known. I was
terrified of growing up, getting
more responsibility, being less and less able to play in fantasyland. And weed was a promise of escape, from all that. It was my very own portal into Neverland, and within a single week in July, I was hooked as a person can be on a drug that’s not supposed to be addictive. We all were, I thought, and yeah, while we were all smoking almost every day, riding the highs, I was the one who took the lead. Found a dealer, scrounged up the money, established a stash. And since I was the one who held it all in my custody, I was the one who ended up on the roof her house at three A.M. on an early August morning, high out of my mind, convinced that if I jumped, I’d fly. I was raving about how I was going to become a part of the galaxy, when my parents found me.
They freaked, kind of unnecessarily, I thought. Yeah, I was too high, but god, it was
summer, and I’d only been into the stuff for a
month. Still, my dads being my dads, they went into some hyperventilative
fit and shipped me off to rehab. It was kind of a joke of a rehab experience. Mentally, yeah, I’d been obsessed, but hardly addicted. Not really. It was a slap on the wrist, more than anything, and it worked: I started ninth grade at Hallows Edge steadfastly refusing to smoke anything ever again. I didn’t want to be the girl who worried her parents to death. I was fourteen, starting at some fancy-shmancy prep school, and I wanted them to trust me.
Sounds unbelievable, right? Like I could have ever been this goody-two-shoes, this parent-pleaser. Trust me, I wasn’t all smiles and rainbows. It was at Hallows Edge that I learned to drink—something I’ve
never liked as much as getting high—and where I fell in love for the first time. Discovered the thrill of another person’s body; of breaking the school rules and sneaking into each other’s rooms; of sharing two beers, getting idiotically tipsy, and taking off each others’ shirts. Exploring new Neverlands. It was at the end of the year that we finally lost our virginities to one another, and after that, I was hooked on something new: love.
Which is why I utterly lost it when, just a couple of months into my sophomore year, my fathers announced that we were moving, and I was coming. They didn’t want me across the country, with no home nearby to come back to if something happened. I didn’t realize it for a few more months, but my earlier little dabbling with drugs had scared them more than I knew, as they’d known, at least in some capacity, who Allison had been. They knew I had a better chance than normal of slipping deep into that world, and they were scared shitless. So, San Francisco it was, with a hearty side of heartbreak. Fifteen years old and forced to leave who I thought was the love of my life, I thought my world was ending.
My parents had always been open with me about my adoption—how could they not?—but it was only then, when they saw me starting to hate them, that they let me contact Allison. I don’t know why, exactly, I wanted to. Mostly, I think, because I knew she was in California, and I figured if I couldn’t love Ben in Massachusetts, maybe I could have a different sort of love for someone else, in California. That maybe she’d understand me a little more, in ways that, try as they might, my real parents couldn’t. So, I wrote her letters. Gut-spilling, rambling, typically teenaged letters, to which she responded with words that made me
sure she’d
get me. She sounded exactly
like me, in the way she saw the world. The way she had absolutely no focus; the way her mind jumped around, as if against her will. She was living in the Bay Area too, she said, so we agreed to meet.
I still don’t entirely understand what happened. What her thought process was. It was clear, when we met, that she was jonesing, from something
hard. Something way harder than I’d ever experienced. Ever
wanted to experience. I’d poured my heart out in those letters, and she had, too, in a lot of ways—but when we met, she barely knew who I was. She didn’t realize that it was the sixteenth anniversary of the day she’d given birth to me; hell, she barely knew my
name. Maybe she wanted to meet me clean, or maybe her stash had just run out—who knows. What I
do know is, that was what did it. That was the last straw. I’d been going
crazy, being taken away from Hallows Edge and everything I thought I had there, and realizing I had nothing in San Francisco, either—realizing that the woman I’d thought could really
be some sort of
figure for me—that she didn’t
know me? It killed me. And that was that. Within fifteen minutes, I was high as a kite.
It took a lot of convincing, but finally, nearly a year later, I convinced my parents to let me go back to school. In my mind, I had two choices: I could stay in San Francisco, where I had no roots, no real friends, no real
life, or go back to Hallows Edge, where I remembered loving my life. In the back of my mind, I had the idea that I could maybe patch things up with Ben and start over—and
then, I knew, I wouldn’t even
need the drugs. I wasn’t using them that much, comparatively, and I really slowed down when I came back. Got wrapped up in the drama of repairing a relationship, to compromise for the fact that what friends I’d had as a freshman were gone, or changed, or siding with the girl Ben was all tied up with. I over-invested myself in the whole thing, unable to admit that coming back might have been a mistake—that I didn’t really have much to come back to. That I didn’t have
anything, anywhere, if I didn’t have this. I
convinced myself that I was still in love with him, even though I think I was holding on to the memory of that puppy love more than anything else. I’d changed too much. I knew where I came from, now, and I hated it and it scared me and I needed something else to think about.
But, I lost. And without that to take my mind off of things, the drugs came back. At first, it was just weed, just like it had always been. It was an old friend. Reliable. Safe, as far as these things go. And, through that friend, I met the next chapter: Sal. Before he was anything else, he was my dealer, and, in a less-committal sense, my employer. My parents would
know what I was up to if they saw my money disappearing so quickly, so we struck a deal: I’d help out with the occasional delivery, and get a free supply in return. It only stayed so business-like for so long, though, and before long it was way more than a business relationship. At some point in there, I got a taste of what else was out there. What insane trips I could go on with just a tab, just a snort, just a swallow. How my mind could float up and away from my body, and just
soar. Weed—weed took the edge off of the unbearable tedium of daily life. But this, now, these hallucinogens, dissociatives—
these were what I craved. And, before long, what I
needed. In October, Allison overdosed. Died. And me—I was already stoned when I found out, and I panicked. Grabbed a handful of whatever drugs I could find, chased them with liquor, and lost my mind.
You can probably guess where things went from there. That’s how I ended up in rehab; that’s how I ended up alone. And that’s how I
really caught the bug. The need for something more. Simultaneously, the fear that if I do it wrong, I’ll end up right where Allison did. And, at the same time, the idle entertainment of the idea that maybe, that wouldn’t be so bad.
What? You said you wanted to know.
Now it's time to find out about the player! What are we to call you?CHARRR. And no, I did not name my character after myself. It’s a long story.
And how long have you been on this planet?NINETEEN YEARS BITCHEZ
So how long have you been trapped in the wonderful world of roleplay?Something like 6 or 7 years.
Any other creations of yours wandering this site?Kiran Leigh Tyler and Owen Casey Swan.
And how did you find us?Literally no idea.
Is this app in response to a Want Ad?Can I take this opportunity to hereby relinquish her from the want-ad shackles? Yes. She was. A LONG LONG LONG LONG TIME AGO AND SHE HAS CHANGED SO MUCH IT SHOULDN’T COUNT ANYMORE. KTB.
Is there anything else we should know?YOU’LL NEVER GET RID OF ME EVER
And finally, the phrase that pays!A Kiss With a Fist Is Better Than None
And a super special spot for the Admins!Approve/Disapprove (ADMIN ONLY) 
