Ana Oliveira

**Six years ago...**


It was the first day of school, my first day of senior year. The new school was a five-story building, modern with mirrored windows that reminded me of the office buildings downtown. It felt strange to be there, squeezed into a blue uniform, with tight jeans pinching my legs. Well, it was still better than the tangled white fabric I was terrified of, that damn shirt they said confined you entirely, the straitjacket.
I had spent the first half of 2015 in a weird daze, as if I were alive but seeing life through a dense layer of glass. I spent my days sedated with medications, living in a limbo, between tranquilizers, antipsychotics, and antidepressants that scraped down my throat. Then, I spent another three months behind the walls of a psychiatric clinic. And I was fifteen... Fifteen fucking years old, and my parents decided that suicide was a good option. Together. And little Ana, the sweet little thing they always said they loved, that they said was a gift, was left alone to deal with her mediocre existence, abandonment, grief, and guilt...
There were days when all I thought about was the sensation my parents experienced at the moment of departure. Did they feel fear? Were they finally feeling relieved? Did they think the pain was finally ending? And what did they see last? The lights of the truck’s headlights? Or was it more romantic, a shared glance as the collision sealed the end? There was no medication that could stop me from thinking, that could block those automatic thoughts that kept me dead even though I still had a pulse...
Almost a year later, there I was, sitting at the front desk of the school, my head resting against the left wall after deciding to wrap myself in a black hooded jacket. The whole world felt distant, as if I were always spaced out, detached, watching life in a black-and-white movie.
School had always been a terror for me, and I used to strive to pass each year, methodically organizing my week to avoid missing any content, to absorb everything from that hell populated by demon-like schoolchildren. Not because I liked studying, but to get it over with, to end that torment. That was during the life that existed before my parents died. But when they were gone, nothing made sense anymore. I was just there, in that damn blue desk, in that pathetic new life, because my aunt was forcing me to. It was either that or a bed in a public shelter until I reached adulthood. “Your parents are dead, and we don’t have anyone! You know that, you know I lost the only sister life gave me. And if you keep trying to die too, you’ll end up killing me, Ana!” my aunt would shout, shaking me, trying to bring me back after finding me on the kitchen floor, seconds after I swallowed an entire bottle of sedatives. She was harsh because she only had me, because she was only thirty, dealing with a suicidal and orphaned teenager. I understood that Aunt Marina was exhausted, I was too...
Life seemed like an eternal bad joke... I had prayed my whole fucking life for a brother, and my father refused, saying he didn’t want more trouble, that I was growing up, and he and my mother wanted to enjoy life. I ignored it, yearning to have a baby around the house. It was a silly dream because I didn’t like the loneliness of being an only child. And I was happy, a silly little girl, delighted by every little thing, who was excited by everything and smiled easily.
Why did I need more? Why, damn it?
When life decided to go against my father's will, my mother ended up pregnant. I remember she surprised me with the news, smiling with her brown hair, serenely short waves, her kind eyes as she handed me a tiny red box that fit in the palm of my hand. When I opened it, I nearly fainted at the sight of that little blue knitted shoe. It was magical, and I thanked God so much, telling all my school friends... How foolish!
Three and a half years later, my entire life went down the drain, all the ground beneath my feet collapsed, and I fell.
Falling.
And falling.
Until there was nothing left.

The damned tragedy that left me alone made me feel guilty for blowing out birthday candles, one after another, year after year, asking for the blessing of having a brother. The way life seemed to hit some families so hard could only be described with one word: cowardice.

I wasn’t ready for the jungle that was school. I wasn’t prepared for the students because I knew they could be cruel; most were. And with no desire to continue breathing, how could I study and start a new life in a new place?

I was the first to arrive in the classroom that day, and gradually the place became lively, with students who had probably known each other for years. There was a boy, Bernardo, who seemed like a good person. He was so excited about the new school year that it annoyed me. The boy laughed, played, and treated everyone well. He didn’t retaliate against the group of bullies in the back of the room who called him “faggot.”

I spent the class like that, with a sour expression, observing everything around me. I didn’t take notes on Literature, even though it had always been my favorite subject. Then, almost at the end of the second period, while a terrible boy named Caíque threw paper balls at Bernardo, a gorgeous guy walked into the room. He was so handsome and had a very deep gaze. His eyes were so intense under thick, arched eyebrows that made him look fierce. When he arrived and dropped his military-patterned backpack next to Bernardo, all the boys who had been bullying went silent. I wasn’t the only one to notice that he had an intimidating presence.

The guy was so tall that he seemed like the oldest in the class. He was a bit stocky, with strong arms and well-defined muscles. When I looked at him, because I couldn’t do otherwise, he didn’t seem to notice, absorbed in laughter and play with Bernardo. They seemed so close... Both of them snooped through each other’s notebooks, copying information onto their own pages, showed each other their phones amidst laughter, whispered, and occasionally got a “scolding” from the teacher.

She was a woman in her forties, wandering around the room with round glasses like Harry Potter’s, talking non-stop with a shrill, nasal voice. The teacher, Lílian, occasionally glared at the duo I was momentarily obsessed with. And even though they were a “problematic” pair, they seemed intelligent students, who got good grades, even if they were a nuisance to the teachers.

My nightmare began when the students went to the sports locker room, with some girls pulling out leggings or small gym shorts from their backpacks. The next class would be Physical Education. My only desire was to remain static, existing and with my eyes and ears tuned to the life of others, to escape the automatic thoughts that drained me and pushed me down.

To ruin my peace completely, I hadn’t brought gym clothes. The teacher, a middle-aged man, almost completely bald with that damned health vibe, with a smiling face, sun-tanned and a perfectly fit body, ordered me to join the class on the court with everyone else. I asked to substitute physical exercise with a written activity, even offering to write a phrase he wanted a hundred times, but he replied that I should just write a summary of the class’s soccer game.

I sat on one of the benches by the sports court, watching as some girls did everything to get the attention of the “hot guy with blue eyes.” I took out my notebook and began writing disconnected phrases about wanting to die.

“I want to die too...”

I turned my face towards the sound, startled, staring at the red-haired girl sitting next to me. Her hair was so red it looked like a cascade of blood. She was very thin, with dark eyes and smudged mascara around them, as if she had been crying. She was the epitome of a troubled teenager, with a silver hoop piercing her septum, a thin plaid jacket in red, with sleeves peeking out from under her blue school shirt, and black high-top Converse All-Stars covering her small feet. Her denim backpack was full of Metallica pins, lying on the floor next to her shoes. And although everything about her seemed sharp, her face was soft, with rounded contours and a very small nose, the kind women would get surgery to have.

“What?” I asked.

“Die...” she murmured with her sweet voice, while pulling up her right sleeve to reveal her wrist covered in extensive horizontal scars.

“Why?”

I inwardly hoped she wasn’t one of those girls who annoyed me, the ones I found it hard to empathize with. The ones who complained about the life I wanted, full of care and overprotective parents. I wanted at least my parents to be there, alive...