Reaching the Bottom
The hours tick away as I sit in this room, this desolate place to which there is no escape. Why am I still here? Why won’t they let me out? It’s been almost three years since the incident and I’ve only hurt myself maybe five times since I’ve been here. Being on lockdown and twenty-four hour suicide watch for three years seems a little drastic for one little failed suicide attempt. I wouldn’t even be here if I had never met him.
It was the summer of 1992 and I had landed a job waitressing at my friend’s uncle’s bar. I had just turned sixteen so I could finally work. One day, this gorgeous young guy came into the bar. He took off his hat and took a seat in a booth by the window. I walked over to him. “Hi,” I said, “uh, can I take your order?” He looked up at me and smiled. “I take it you’re not from here.
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