The Story of Madeleine, Part 2.

There was no gateway, with the drugs. She took what was offered, whenever she was offered.

Her boyfriend was desperate to present themselves as wild, carefree, rebellious. ‘Live fast and die young’ – the slogan of so many who didn’t know better, he literally had tattooed on his chest. Maddie wore wigs, or pretended she’d shaved her head to prove some sort of wicked point. She found a sort of pseudo-acceptance among people she didn’t care for, and pretended it didn’t bother her when she’d come home after days of drinking to find her mother exhausted and her father strung out on panic.

She felt as though she hardly knew her once-beloved, anymore – she could only tolerate him if she was on something, or if he was high, or some combination of the two. He was moody and sometimes violent, without the drugs.

And she…she was worse.

Maddie was starting to feel manic, hitting highs and lows she didn’t know could be reached. From day to day, everything would change; she would feel bold, aggressive, owning her ‘freakishness’ and brazenly feeling beautiful, regardless of what anyone said. The following day, or hour, or minute…that euphoria would crash, and she’d tear at her bald scalp with her nails, sobbing in a heap, never wanting to be looked upon for the rest of her life.

When things finally escalated, she was so out of her mind that she couldn’t give the same story twice. First, she told the police it had been his fault. He was crazy, coked up, angry. He’d lashed out at her first. The next time she told the story, she was choking on regret, claiming she’d been the one to hit him, first. She’d grabbed a bottle, broken it against the counter, and slashed him right across his ridiculous tattoo.

The story changed several more times. She hadn’t attacked him at all. No, she had. Or had he hurt himself? Maybe she’d hurt herself. Maybe there was a third party. Had one of their friends been around? Had they left? Was she going insane?

She felt insane. The courts didn’t agree.

She was seventeen, and bound for juvenile hall and drug rehabilitation. Part of her felt that was just.

Another part of her…a much louder part…felt nothing at all. She had no faith in that system; she knew was became of girls like her. She was out of control…and places like that only ripped at the wound.

She wouldn’t get better, in there, and that was all she wanted. She didn’t care if her hair grew back, if she got clean. She didn’t even care if her parents forgave her, even though the thought had her crying herself to sleep every night.

She just wanted to be under control, again.