The next three days made me feel more dirty rather than clean.

Working five days a week in a stupid corner store, sick and anxious all the time. Nicotine cravings, scratching in my sleep. Dizzy, vomiting, insomniac, afraid: “clean.”

“Do you want to go see a doctor or something?” My mother fretted over my physical state madly, took the week off work to make sure I never left the house, except for when I went to work.

“Oh, God, please.” Doctors, pharmacies? Yes. Yes, please.

My mom told me she’d set up an appointment, and I watched whatever was on TV in my clean hell. Because why live in a dirty heaven when you can burn in hell, but at least you won’t be drugged? What a scam.

The sickness was drawn out painfully to the date of my doctor’s appointment the day before school started back again, and my mom drove me there, insisting that James came along, too, for some reason.

The doctor, a balding old man named Dr. Mann, asked questions, and I answered. In my mind, I was begging him to prescribe me Ativan, Valium, Librium- anything. 

Dr. Mann pulled my parents aside and talked with them in hushed tones for a moment. My mother looked about ready to burst out in tears, nodding profusely. Then, he said that he couldn’t prescribe me anything due to “my history” and said something about “waiting it out,” and that absolutely enraged me.

“What the fuck?” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest like an angry child. “I’m sick- Mom, you know how sick I’ve been? I’m sick, I’m dying, and you won’t give me anything at all to make me better? What kind of doctor are you? What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking lunatic? I’m a fucking sick kid, why won’t you fucking give me the… Why won’t you fucking give me the fucking… Jesus Christ! Are you sick in the head, Dr. Mann? Is that what it is? What’s wrong with you!” I was on a screaming rant, flailing my arms around in the air, totally unaware of anything going on around me, or anyone else.

“Elena! Calm down-” Began my mother, desperate, but I was on a roll.

“You fucking sick doctor! They should take away your fucking license! What the fuck is wrong with you, sicko? You wanna see a sick kid fucking die? Fuck you! Fuck you! Why won’t you gimme the fucking drugs? Fuck you, Dr. Mann, and your stupid fucking bald head! Fuck you!”

My mom grabbed my arm, yanked me off the stupid plastic chair I was sitting on, and snapped: “Shut up, Elena. You can’t talk to a doctor like that. We’re going home. Now.”

We drove home in silence, stars spinning around my livid mind dizzyingly. My mind was obsessing over the circle of rage over that doctor. Fuck him, fuck him!  I thought madly, insanely. If he wants to lose his fucking medical license, let him! I don’t give a shit, he’s just some stupid sicko, anyway!

I stormed into my bedroom as soon as we got home, tried to make myself sleep. But I couldn’t, and I lay awake staring at my ceiling in my dim-lighted room, which I still needed to clean.

My mom walked in without knocking, flicking on the light. She asked coldly, “Is all your stuff ready for school tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Can I go out tomorrow, after school?”

“After work, yes.”

“Okay.”

“Dinner’s ready.”

The three of us sat quietly at the table, picking at our plates with little appetite

Then, all of a sudden, James spoke up. “What you did today was unacceptable, Elena. You shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that.”

“James-” began my mother, but I interrupted, stating with a bland, intellectual tone: “That doctor was crazy. He shouldn’t be allowed to work.”

“He was just doing his job. You had no right to throw a tantrum like a child. You’re sixteen.”

“James,” said my mom, again. “Just let it go. She’s just sick.”

“And why is she sick? Because she’s a fucking addict, that’s why!”

Both me and my mom let out a gasp.

“How dare you say that!” I was more shocked than angry. How could he say that? How could he blatantly lie? And why, why would he say it? Tears stung in the whites of my eyes. “That’s not true at all, you just think I’m gonna be like my real dad- who you don’t even know, by the way!”

James promptly threw his hands up in the air and stood up from the table. “I’m done with all this. I quit.” And he stormed out of the house.

My mom broke down in tears. Stress raced through my head like race horses galloping around a track. I muttered under my breath, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault, it’s not your fault…”

“Are you getting divorced, Mom?” I asked, glum.

“No, no, we aren’t. We’re gonna fix it, I promise, okay?” She wiped tears from her face which was almost as pallid as my own.

“Okay…” I sighed. “I’m sorry, again, Mom.”