Post by Eleanor Ackerly on Feb 12, 2010 5:47:18 GMT
“I'm done,” Eleanor told him
“You can't be done!” Stephen exclaimed. “Drugs aren't something you can quit! How do you give up pot?”
Eleanor gritted her teeth, gray eyes turning hard. Hadn't she just this morning promised herself she wouldn't do it again? Hadn't she hated every fiber of her being every time she was even near pot? And she was expected to do it again?
Even though she'd done it almost every day for two years, ever since Stephen found it when he was thirteen, and she was ten, she just couldn't do it anymore. She was ashamed. Ashamed because of her stupidity. Ashamed because she'd shown vulnerability. Ashamed because she'd been weak.
Well, this time, she was done. This was the only way she could prove to herself that she was strong. It was bad for her health to do this. Plus, she was sick of smelling like pot everywhere she went. Trying to make her life better only made it worse. So it was time to make a change – something she did not do openly. Time to turn away from her only source of comfort, aside from taking walks and playing guitar. And it was all so that she could make her life better.
Ironic, wasn't it? Something that made her feel good, something that made her problems temporarily go away, something that made her feel like her life wasn't falling apart anymore, only made her life tear itself into shreds.
“I'm not going to make you stop, Stephen. I would like it if you did. You're fifteen; in three years, a college won't accept a stoner. Ending it now will only make your life better,” she told him.
“You're funny. Now take a joint,sit down, and forget all that nonsense,” he replied, lighting himself some pot.
“I'm dead serious. When I turn around and walk away, I mean it. This life for me is at its end. It shouldn't have even started, but it did. I'm done, Stephen. When you're done, too, maybe we can be friends again. But I'm twelve; I don't want to smoke pot my whole life. Ending at an early age will be good for me,” she informed him.
“Whatever. Walk away. I have other friends who will smoke with me,” he snapped.
Eleanor took a deep breath, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Goodbye, Stephen. Goodbye, until you learn that this stupid path will only lead you through a winding, idiotic path, until you reach the dead end you're bound to end up at.”
And that was that. She turned around, walked away, and left that life behind her. Her vow that she would never smoke pot again actually meant something to her, and that was a vow she would never break.
On she headed, into a new, drug-free life.
“You can't be done!” Stephen exclaimed. “Drugs aren't something you can quit! How do you give up pot?”
Eleanor gritted her teeth, gray eyes turning hard. Hadn't she just this morning promised herself she wouldn't do it again? Hadn't she hated every fiber of her being every time she was even near pot? And she was expected to do it again?
Even though she'd done it almost every day for two years, ever since Stephen found it when he was thirteen, and she was ten, she just couldn't do it anymore. She was ashamed. Ashamed because of her stupidity. Ashamed because she'd shown vulnerability. Ashamed because she'd been weak.
Well, this time, she was done. This was the only way she could prove to herself that she was strong. It was bad for her health to do this. Plus, she was sick of smelling like pot everywhere she went. Trying to make her life better only made it worse. So it was time to make a change – something she did not do openly. Time to turn away from her only source of comfort, aside from taking walks and playing guitar. And it was all so that she could make her life better.
Ironic, wasn't it? Something that made her feel good, something that made her problems temporarily go away, something that made her feel like her life wasn't falling apart anymore, only made her life tear itself into shreds.
“I'm not going to make you stop, Stephen. I would like it if you did. You're fifteen; in three years, a college won't accept a stoner. Ending it now will only make your life better,” she told him.
“You're funny. Now take a joint,sit down, and forget all that nonsense,” he replied, lighting himself some pot.
“I'm dead serious. When I turn around and walk away, I mean it. This life for me is at its end. It shouldn't have even started, but it did. I'm done, Stephen. When you're done, too, maybe we can be friends again. But I'm twelve; I don't want to smoke pot my whole life. Ending at an early age will be good for me,” she informed him.
“Whatever. Walk away. I have other friends who will smoke with me,” he snapped.
Eleanor took a deep breath, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Goodbye, Stephen. Goodbye, until you learn that this stupid path will only lead you through a winding, idiotic path, until you reach the dead end you're bound to end up at.”
And that was that. She turned around, walked away, and left that life behind her. Her vow that she would never smoke pot again actually meant something to her, and that was a vow she would never break.
On she headed, into a new, drug-free life.