The Beginning Of The End.

Now that you have started, the clock is ticking. I'm not going to waste time with the basics- you'll find out the important ones as we go along. My life's not very interesting (you will soon find out) so nobody was too bothered when you killed me.

Just like the other seven hundred-ish kids attending Northwood high I was a bored teen hanging onto life by a thread. As we already established, I quickly loosed grip on this "thread". Metaphors are stupid. Perhaps I should be thanking you for ripping me out of this hellhole.

My ungodly sleeping routine was my daily therapy- a sanctuary. How I cherished the undisturbed hours of 2-5 am: no yelling, no expectations, no mysoginistic boys or narsasistic mean girls. I could breathe. I will miss those times.

Nothing was more appealing to me than the soft, comforting glow of the moon amongst a sea of darkness. Sometimes I dared go take a short walk outside- just around the block- to bathe in the peacefulness among my poor excuse of a life. If I was unlucky my step dad would be awake when I returned from these walks, utilising me as his personal punching bag. When I threatened to tell my mum: "Jen would never believe you," he would sneer. "I'll kick you out," he would spit.

I'll tell you a bit about Steve. Your typical drunk, egotistical, violent man with a clear disrespect towards any female. His fists almost always balled up looking for any possible fights. A jobless alcoholic I lost all respect for the first time he gave my mum a nasty black eye. After eight years of living with that leech I have learned (arguably the hard way) to keep my head down- I'm lucky if I go a week without a bruise. Usually, I'm careful what I say about Steve but I'm dead either way.

Fuck you Steve. Fuck you, fuck your stupid alcoholic bullshit; fuck you for every bruise, every wound, every broken bone you have given me.

That's enough about Steve. He's not worth our time- the precious, dwindling time that we have left together.

I always knew you were going to come. I was waiting, patiently- almost estatically. Waiting so my ending would begin. As your reading this, you are slowly but surely killing me. Yet here we are, going back to where it all started where I felt your eyes watching.

Now I'm no sight for sore eyes, so why did you choose me? My abnormally average look blends me into almost nothing. So why my story? It was when I was walking home from school alone that I first felt the presence of your watchful eyes. I stopped for a second, my gut was telling me you were there. Either way I continued and reassured myself I was safe. I was wrong. As I steered down the muddy path littered with moss and overgrown grass, you watched me. You are watching me.

Even as I stepped into my battered down flat, sighing at the mess: Unwashed clothes thrown carelessly to the floor, our miniscule kitchen overpopulated with embty liquor bottles and dirty dishes, the suffocation of cigarette smoke clouding the living room and my lungs. You were watching as I manuvered my way around, heading straight to my bedroom.

I felt like I was going crazy. It only got worse. When I would pick up my book and read into late hours of the night, someone was watching me. As I tended to the fresh slice of open flesh that Steve had marked upon my face only an hour ago, you were there. Witnessing my pain.Why were you watching me? I knew you where there.

At last, I confided in a friend. Yes, I know shocker a friend. We don't have time to waste talking about Sam so long story short she suggested I was going crazy. Great. But that's what you want, right? You're thriving in my slow and painful death.

You see dear reader, it's 4am, and I'm about to die. I had warned you in the beginning that this was inevitable. The bottle of pills in my hand are proof enough.

The very seccond you started my story- it began to end. And you will soon realise that as I'm overdosing on my mother's medication, this story- my life is coming to a close. I can feel myself slipping away. Im done with fighting it. I told you it would end this way.

Maybe if you didn't start this story, maybe if your eyes were somewhere else this would end differently. Maybe you would never have known me or my ending.

Slowly and gracefully as your eyes soak in the last of these words - the only proof I ever existed-you will come to realise that after you finish my story I'll be gone, just a distant fragment of your imagination.

Our time together was short. The pain is no longer. Thank you dear reader.