He was done. He'd lived his whole life walking aimlessly through his life with no goal whatsoever. He'd been living in this stage for too long. He'd been trying to keep all his pain a secret, but it didn't matter anymore. He didn't care what people thought because he was done. He had a plan. And his plan consisted of three things: a note, a rope, and himself. He was going to hang himself. He'd been called fat, ugly, a waste of space, and so many other names. His own parents told him that he was using up too much oxygen. So why not kill himself? No one wanted him anyways. The one girl that he thought would save him turned her back in him the minute he told her how he felt. She ran away and left him for dead. That's when they started. The nightmares. They felt so real. They started every now and then got more often. When they started he'd be able to wake up and go back to sleep. He'd just be shaken up. But they got worse. They'd get so bad that some nights he'd wake up screaming. He started to worry his mom. But not because she thought he was depressed. Because she thought he was going insane. So why not die? Everyone talked of making it out of the tunnel and being happy, but he didn't plan on making it that far. Every time he found something thy made him happy that thing walked out on him. Told him to fight by himself. But little did they know that the words that they said hurt more than any of the blades against his wrist. They told him that being depressed was his fault. They told him that it was his fault that people called him all those names. They told him that he wasn't going anywhere in life because he was too fat. So why not kill himself? So he went through with. His hope was hanging by a thread and they cut it with a fucking knife. He went home one day, grabbed the rope, tied it, set up on a chair, rope around his neck, and walked of the chair. In that moment that he stepped off the chair, and felt the rope slowly tighten around his neck and his breathing slow, he felt so alive. He saw all the people. All the people being happy because he was gone. He saw his parents being happy that trey didn't have another mouth to feed. He saw all the bullies and people who called him names happy that they didn't have to see his ugly face every day. He saw his teachers being happy because they didn't have to keep grading his papers so their job was that much easier. He saw his siblings being happy because now they each had their own room. He saw his "friends" happy because they didn't have to listen to him rant. He was alive. Yet was dying. Then it happened. The rope went *snap!* and he fell to the floor. He failed. He started to cry. Why does no one understand? They call people names and don't realize that their words stab deeper than any knife will. Sticks and stones will break bones but those words will leave psychological scars that last forever. No one understands that his body didn't process food as fast as others so he was bigger. No one understood that just because he laughed when he was called fat that it didn't mean that it don't hurt. So he had to keep living. Waking up every morning knowing that he had to put on this act for everyone so they thought he was fine. Continue to lie about where all the cuts came from. Lie about where the bruise around his neck came from. Lie about being okay. Because in truth, he wasn't okay.
