Oh, crap, part deux

Remember a few weeks ago, when I posted about my math teacher reading my NaNo (she's giving it back tomorrow with feedback, by the way!)?
Well, I have something way, way worse.
In a fit of insanity, I agreed to enter a short story contest, showed to me by my french teacher. The problem? I had to give it to him to enter and send in.
Which, as we all know, means that he is going to read it.
It's worse then my NaNo, to, content-wise. It's basically about a girl sitting on her bed, thinking about committing suicide. Heck, since the whole world is going to be reading it (or, at least, the teachers and a panel of judges in BC), I might as well post it here:
When we’re little, we think that doctors can fix everything. They just give you that magical drink, or sometimes even a shot, and then you’re all better.
But they can’t fix me, Essence realized. She was in her room, perched on her bed. The curtains were drawn.
Beside her lay the little bottle of pills.
The doctors used pills to make people feel better. Well, maybe these will make me feel better, Essence mused.
They looked so innocent, the little bottle laying on its side.
Essence ran her hand through her hair. She honestly couldn’t deal with her life anymore. Her parents were stressed, to frazzled to talk to her. She had no friends at school—she didn’t expect any of her classmates to know how to deal with grief. She used to be able to talk about that kind of thing with Indie. But she couldn’t now.
The bottle was such a happy orange color.
Indie had liked that color, Essence remembered. Indie had liked bright colors—the reds and yellows and oranges. Once she had tried to convince their parents to repaint her bedroom orange. It hadn’t worked. Essence now stared at her sister’s bed, the pale whiteness of the wall behind it blinding her.
The pills spilt out of the bottle on to deep blue comforter.
The comforter in question reminded Essence of the waves, that night in Cancun. The beach party. And Indie’s last vacation. Essence remembered the terrified look on her sister’s face when the undertow had caught her. It had been so unexpected, and Essence hadn’t been able to do anything.
Essence looked at her hands. She recalled the woman who had spoken to her class in grade six, all those years ago—It’s okay to feel sad, as long as you tell someone about it. But Essence couldn’t talk to anyone else. She was trapped inside her head.
She reached for the bottle. It rolled into her palm like an old friend, waiting for her to rescue it from its abandoned life on the bed.
And now it was going to do the same for her.


Yeah... just a note: there was a word limit of 360 words.