Delicate

haunted memories

*TW: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE*

☆: *.☽ Cassandra ☆: *.☽

"Hallucinations, shame, guilt, pain, more pain"

March 15, 2005

I stared up at my house. My stupid, boring, plain old house.

It wasn't a nice house, my family lived over in the council estate housing, courtesy of being sued for defamation and spending an absurd amount of money on lawyers.

Or courtesy of me.

My family was never rich by any means but we were comfortable—at least until the lawyers.

I hated my house. I wasn't ashamed since no one even acknowledged my existence but I hated what came with going home.

My parents and their sad eyes, looking at me with so much remorse and regret. I knew they loved me and they cared about me but it was all too much for me.

I ruined their financial stability and their pride. My family was a mockery in Ballylaggin. Everywhere my parents went, people whispered and to me that was the worst part.

I could handle whatever people said, but my parents couldn't. I saw how it was tearing them apart.

I pushed open the front door and stepped into the minimally decorated house. I kicked off my shoes and headed straight for my bedroom.

A part of me was glad we moved—because it meant I got to leave my memories in that house—but I also missed it. This house was a huge reminder of everything I'd lost.

My friends, my parents, my security, my spirit.

It was all a mess of sadness, pain and overwhelming anger.

And the most fucked up part was that I wasn't even the most angry at Stephan, I was most angry with myself.

Because I should've just kept my mouth shut like he said. Then my family would be happy, we'd have money and I wouldn't be avoided like the plague.

I used to cry everyday after getting home from school. I'd kick off my shoes, sprint to my room and sob until my head ached. It was pathetic because the tears didn't help shit.

I was still seen as a liar and a slut and a snake. Nothing would change that.

These days I accepted my fate. Instead of crying, I'd crack open my textbooks and finish my homework.

And then I'd shove in my earbuds and listen to music that made me feel like dying.

I thought about dying a lot actually.
About how it wouldn't really matter if I downed a bottle of pills or jumped off a bridge.

In all honesty no one would care aside from my parents. And even they'd get over it. Maybe people would feel bad for the things they said—or maybe they wouldn't—but either way the world would keep spinning.

With or without me.

The only reason I hadn't done it yet was because I was a pathetic fucking coward, holding onto the hope of someday being believed. Even though the chances of that happening were minuscule.

I pulled my textbooks out of my schoolbag and dropped them on my desk, before tearing off my uniform and throwing on sweats and a jumper.

I opened my phone, scrolling to find something to listen to—while ignoring the notifications from MySpace, most of which were telling me to choke and die.

It should've bugged me, but it didn't. I was numb to it. I knew these people got off on tormenting me but I didn't give a single fuck.

Because I knew what happened.
I knew the truth.

I was thirty minutes into my homework when my mam arrived home. I recognized the sound of her footsteps and the jingle of her keys as she walked upstairs and knocked on my door.

"Come in," I called out, while internally wishing she'd go away.

"Hi, Honey," She gave me a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "How was your day?"

My mam knew about the bullying, she knew everyday I was harassed but we both acted like I wasn't.

"Fine," I shrugged, "I got an A on my maths project."

"That's amazing," She nodded, hovering in the doorway "I'm making spaghetti for dinner, is there any vegetable you want on the side?"

"Maybe carrots," I offered.

"Okay," She replied, "Carrots it is." She shut the door behind her, leaving me alone in the safety of my room.

I loved my mam. She was truly my best—and only—friend. But these days it was impossible to talk to her without my heart cracking in two. She wore this permanent expression of pure defeat and I knew it had to do with the shit people said about our family.

I finished my last maths problem, before dropping down onto my bed and smashing a pillow over my face.

I was completely exhausted. I hardly slept these days, thanks to my nightmares and anxiety. I had gone to therapy when I first told my parents about what happened, but we obviously couldn't afford it anymore.

I was left with a prescriptions for depression, anxiety, and PTSD. All of which I took daily.

I yanked my journal out of my nightstand drawer, along with a pen and began scribbling my furious thoughts into it.

Because I was so fucking mad at the world. It was probably concerning how much of my time was spent being angry but could anyone really blame me?

I hated school.
I hated society.
I hated everyone.
And most of all I hated myself.

I felt completely isolated and that would never change. I had walls built around my heart so that no one could ever get in.

And no one ever would get in.
No matter how hard they tried.