The Cost Of Happiness

The room I was put in is small and tucked in at the end of the long hall-Number two hundred and fifty. And like all the other's others, it boasts white tiled walls and floors, beige towels and everything in neutral. There is one painting hanging directly in front of me-a delicate pink rose in bloom, surrounded by green blades of grass. I often wonder if it's meant to be ironic, because nothing that happens in these rooms is delicate or beautiful. But then again, there's a possibility that it's not irony at all. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Something like hope. I look down at the shape my body makes beneath the thin, white blanket. I see the bones in my kneecaps and elbows, and I feel them rubbing against my powder pink night gown. I grit my teeth as I pull myself up into a sitting position. It's depressing to lie flat on my back all the time. It makes me think about how much time I've spent with my eyes closed. A new pain ignites inside of me as I wiggle my torso against the pillow behind me. It's blooming inside of my stomach, deep underneath my skin. I bite my lip as I'm hit with surge after surge. It burns up the length of me-Angry, blood boiling pain. My hand leaves the cocoon of warmth that the blanket allows, and falls automatically on the little red button beside me. It's connected to an IV, and thanks to the doctor on call, a steady supply of morphine. I press the button once...twice...and a new stream of relief chases the salt water into my veins. The first few moments after are the best. Because where there was pain before, there is now an absence-And the absence is so profound-My limbs begin to shake a bit at the sheer nothingness of it. It's like I've been out in the cold for too long...But that's not right, because I haven't been outside in weeks. And then my mind begins to fog over, not completely, but enough to quiet the inevitable stream of thoughts that begin to roll in. Like the ebb and flow of the tide-they always come. What will happen to me when this is all over? Who am I without the pain? Is it possible that the foggy, dull person I am right now is really me? I close my eyes and lean back farther into the cardboard-thin pillow. I used to read books, before all this. I used to base my life around the fact that love always conquers all, that princes save the day...that the world is beautiful. I am hanging on to this little piece of myself as everything fades to black. 2013, Three years ago Blackburn middle school sits on the edge of Greenbank- a small town known for it's endless fields of wheat and fat dairy cows. The buildings are all clapboard and wooden beams, with plumes of smoke billowing from brick fireplaces all day long in the winter months. The downtown features a strip of novelty shops that only appeal to the townies, as no tourists ever make it as far south as Greenbank. There are bigger, more lively cities full of exciting people just an hour away. One's whose streets are illuminated with neon lights and half drunk partygoers. School starts at eight fifteen, but the school bus runs earlier, dropping us off at least ten minutes early to make sure that we're on time and also to ensure that the bus driver gets her midmorning coffee. This morning there is a thin layer of ice on the hood of the bright yellow bus, and the black floor is smeared with mud and wayward clumps of snow. The kids already on board are pushed up against the window, their breath coming out hot and fogging up the window. All are in knitted, multicolored hats and long scarves. I sit in the back row, close to the emergency exit. It's part of a routine that I created for myself when I was afraid of incompetent drivers and buses being swallowed up in flames. Now I am only afraid of straying from that routine. There is someone I know in the seat in front of me. Her name is Margaret, and she wears her blonde hair in two tight braids. I see her smiling with her group of friends in the hallway. I noticed her first when I saw her wearing the t-shirt of a local band that I grew to love over the summer, but I've never tried to speak to her. She looks nice enough to me. I'm just afraid of the parts of her that I can't see. The thoughts that swim around behind her eyes. What she thinks about when she sees me. I feel my hands slicken inside my hoodie at the thought. Then, as if on cue, a loud group of boys steps on. Upperclassmen in a cloud of cologne and after spray. I close my eyes and try to make myself small, but my backpack is too bulky, and my breathing too loud. I give myself away by not wanting their attention. "Hannah Whitey." The boy with curly, blonde hair says. His voice is chiding. I know that tone of voice-it works well on other girls. He's trying to get a rise out of me. I sink even lower, heat rising up in my cheeks and on the back of my neck. "Miss Whitey." He says again, a question mark at the end of his sentence. "It's Whitfield." I say, my voice coming out between my teeth. "Yeah, yeah." He drawls, his arm slinking around me, playing with my black ponytail. I can feel the heat of his breath on the side of my face. "Do you want to sit with us at lunch today?" I follow his pointed stare to the group of boys that are chortling behind us. They are all staring, wide-eyed. I half expect them to start hooting and hollering. "All of you into your seats!" The driver snaps. She is old...her skin wrinkled like an old map, but her warning voice is enough to scare everyone into submission. Then we are lurching forward, and the bus is moving again. I stare out the window at the wintry landscape. There are no hills in Greenbank, everywhere you look is farmland. And ironically, most of the time it's not green, but different colors of yellow and brown. Then I remember that my mom is planning on picking me up from school early for a doctor's appointment, and I suck in a deep breath. I smile giddily at the relief that comes with remembering. Yes, I only have to be at school for half a day today...I can eat lunch in the safety of home, I can take deep breaths and feel like I am a living person and not just half a person struggling over a mountain of anxiety. I close my eyes again, and this time I feel brave enough to leave them that way. My name is Hannah Whitfield, I think. The voice that my mind attributes to myself is happy sounding and carefree, a far cry from reality. And all I have to do is make it one day at a time.