Suicide.

Prolouge

Saturday, London England, 3:00am

The night lingers outside my small window, this was usually the time mum got home after a long day of "work". Dad's in the living room, drunk as usual. I'm sitting in my twin bed. My room has band posters that haunt the sagging red wallpaper. A checkered carpet sits beneath my bed of countless plushies and pillows. I stare at the roof of sallow white, lost in thought as the night echoes on. The moonlight strides through my open curtains, the only light in the room. My long jet-black hair billows onto my pillows. I'm in my Snoopy crop top and shorts, scars and bruises etched on my pale skin. I have smile faces and hearts drawn onto them, I doodle on myself often to mask the pain that I'm so thoroughly drenched in. I hear the front door open, it's probably mum after her cheating session. I can hear her sigh through the thin walls as if she didn't just betray this corrupted family. My name is Emilie Butterscotch, I obviously didn't pick my second name. I turned 17 years old today, well technically on friday and I recieved nothing, not even the company of my parents. It's past midnight, its weekend now. Which only means arguements from my parents and more drunken abuse. My hazel eyes glisten as the moonlight dawns on me. The AC whirrs, it's june and I feel like London's finally had some nice heat. I feel invisible at school, no body pays any mind to me. I have no friends, although I prefer being alone. I'm not the prettiest, nor the skinniest. I'm not fat, just curvy with one or two belly rolls. Mum likes to make fun of me, I remember the time she burned me with the kettle. On purpose. I wait silently for my parents to sleep so I can leave and launch myself off Tower Bridge down the street. I'm sick of it, all of it. Sometimes I want to sob but it feels like a chain is wrapping around my throat and threatening to choke me to death. I have a younger brother, Wyatt. My parents never wanted a girl so of course my brother would be favorited and spoiled rotten. Not a single blemish is on him. I tell myself that their standards aren't clothes for me to fit in, I tell myself that I deserve this, that I'm a shitty person for wanting to end it all. I grab my cardboard cutter and I lose my clean streak.