Screwed

I peer through the bars of the stair railing, looking down at the overly modern living room that was now considered my home. I'm filled with a burning hatred for the sleek black marble floors and the pricey yet obnoxiously uncomfortable high end furniture. I focus on the aerial view of my perfectly made up mother, her red lipstick meticulously applied and her red bottomed heels stretching sky high.
"I just worry about having her here, right in the middle of all those gossiping socialites and the prying press in our backyard," my mom sighs and takes a long gulp of her wine. For once, I can't help but agree with her.
"We can't hide her from the world forever," dad argues in his business voice, the same one he uses to close business deals.
"I just don't want to see her get hurt," mom sighs and dads face softens. He rubs her shoulder consolingly.
"She needs to learn to live in the real world, we can't keep tucking her away in boarding schools forever," I scoff at my fathers words. It was his idea to send me to boarding school in the first place, and it was due to his insistence that I was sent to one on the outskirts of London. Though it was my mother who decided I would spend summers in Italy or Spain. Ever since that fateful day six years ago when my parents sent me off to London, I've only seen them once a year for Christmas, which we still spend in Aspen at my parents private estate. It's always horribly awkward and forced cheerful. Especially since the only person I actually enjoy seeing is my brother, Felix.
"Well we could always send her to college overseas," my mother suggests though she doesn't seem overjoyed by the idea.
"Let's just see how the summer goes," my dad humors her.
I take my cue to leave and crawl back up the marble staircase. moving to stand as soon as I'm safely tucked away in the hallway. I push open my bedroom door and beeline for the bathroom. The familiar pressure on my chest weighs down even more the longer I'm in the city. I fumble with the bright orange prescription pill bottle and throw three of the blue capsules to the back of my throat, swallowing them dry.
I stare at myself in the mirror as I grip the edges of the vanity with white knuckles. The dark bags under my eyes make my already pale skin look ghostly. My hair flops in a long, tangled ponytail down my back, the unwashed strands sticking to the back of my clammy neck.
3 months. That's all I have to make it through. After that I'm free to do whatever I want, and get the hell out of this claustrophobic city.

Notes