They're My Problems... Not Yours.

I care.

TW- cussing, suicidal thoughts (brief), yelling, self harm (detailed) please don't read this chapter if you think it will be triggering.

Wordcount: 2,424

Your brother drops you off at the house before driving off, saying he needs to go early so he can help set everything up.

You see they're no cars parked outside so no one is home.

You walk inside and quickly go into your room, changing into a pair of yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt before walking out into the living room.

You lay on the couch letting your thoughts run free, usually your cooped up in your room all day, its very rare that you are home alone lately because it's usually you having to watch your moms boyfriends kids.

You look around your house and feel tears pricking at your eyes, the house hasn't changed a bit yet your life has changed so much... you sit up and look at your Dad's urn, feeling tears run down your cheeks.

You lean back on the couch, closing your eyes and picturing your dad and all the memories you had together. You do that alot, like when your sad... mad... or just wanna get away. It helps.

You get broken out of thought hearing the front door slam shut along with some mumbling.

You open your eyes and your mother is looking at you like your insane and the two kids are grabbing some toys, bring them into the living room and playing with them right next to you, ignoring your existing completely.

You get up off the couch and go to your room, closing the door behind you before flopping on the bed.

They act like I don't belong here... like I'm the one out of place... maybe I am... maybe I should be gone, it's not like anyone would care... or even notice...

You get up and rummage threw all of your stuff, desperately looking for a blade.

After about five minutes you are about to give up until an idea sparks in your mind.

"What if I just... I mean there's no other way..."

You walk out of your room and into the kitchen, waiting a few moments, making sure no one is coming over before grabbing a small kitchen knife and quickly walking back into your room.

Grabbing your skateboard and shoving it underneath the small crack under the door, jamming it.

You sit on your bed and examine the knife before hesitantly pulling down your yoga pants and placing the knife on your upper thigh, applying pressure until it begins to bleed, you then slowly slide the knife across your thigh, whining a little at the pain.

You lift the knife up and place it on the bed next to you, you look back at the deep, wide cut you've made in your thigh and panic begins to sink in.

You limp over to your makeup stand and grab a toilet paper roll you have sitting there, you quickly unravel a wad and push in on your cut, applying pressure.

You feel a stinging pain in your thigh and you bite your lip, pulling the toilet paper off your thigh and seeing your cut quickly filling back up with blood, starting to drip down your thigh.

You grab more toilet paper, quickly wiping it up and pushing it on your cut again.

You quickly go back over to your bed and search for your phone, checking all over your bed until you remember you left it on the couch in the living room.

"Fuck," you mutter to yourself.

You grab a thin, baggy pair of pajama pants and keep the toilet paper on your thigh, pulling up the pants and tightening the jaw string before moving the skateboard out of the way and quickly rushing out of your room, grabbing your phone off the couch.