Depression Kills

Chapter 3

  The bus, dreadful as always. It squeaked coming to a slow stop. The doors slammed open. I carefully walked up the two stairs. Knowing me in pain, my clumsiness level goes up. If that's a thing. The bus driver was old, she was kind, but she was too old to be driving. We almost die everyday. That's the only thing I enjoy of the bus rides. I walked down the skinny aisle. A boy on the lacrosse team spitting at me. A girl saying slut and laughing. I don't know how I've got that horrid nickname. I don't have a boyfriend, I never have. I've never kissed a boy. Let alone do things with one. I've never even HUGGED a male other than my grandfather who passed a few months in of this year. But that's a relative thing. It didn't count.

I didn't get why I was hated. I didn't do anything to any of them. Ever. Yet they treat me as the dirt they walk over every day.  I took a seat by the window. I dread these days. What people call "precious time"  I call, "a waste of a life".  I looked out the window, I liked to see the only beauty of life. Human creatures wasn't it.

                    ***********

I walked out of the bus and in to school. I was stared out. One girl deciding to grab my sleeve, pull it up and laugh.

    "Wow, what an attention whore!" she tormented.

   I clenched my teeth. Pulling my arm back freeing it from her hand.

    "If you only knew," I rushed off.

  I ran in to the bathroom cleaning off spit from my body. I'm not a Greek celebration, they need to stop spitting at me. I opened my backpack and took out a blade.

I clenched it in a fist in my hand. It tore my skin open. I threw it. Regretting my decision. I can't keep doing this played through my mind. If I'm going to do something, it needs to be something I'm proud of. I un-zipped the front pocket of my back pack. I grabbed the orange bottle of pills. I turned on the sink and started gulping down the pills. One pill, two pill, three, another more. Just a few more, now the bottle is done. Try to stop me, it's way too late now. 

 

  The bell rang, telling us to go to class. I didn't. I stayed, letting the pills settle in. Forty-five minutes in I began to get a head-ache. Soon later a migraine. I felt like throwing up, but.I held it in. The pills will not leave my system.

 

I began to hear footsteps. I grabbed my backpack amd ran in to a stall locking it. I tried to see, but everything was fuzzy. I hung my backpack on the hook of the stall door, after a few attempts. I then hid waiting for this person to leave. After the faucet of one of the sinks turned off and I listened to the footsteps, which should be quiet, but I heard them like an elephant, leave the bathroom. I got down. Or tried. I slipped off the seat I was standing on the edges of and hit my head against the stall door.

  

  My head aching more than before. Now I had a pain in my chest. Moving to my stomach. My legs and arms went numb. Slowly, my heart rate went down. It stopped. My heart stopped after those hours which felt like seconds. I, Skylar Quinn, was dead.