of lies and misfits

STOP.

This is a short story I wrote for my english class. A hundred percent inspired on a Dalton Rapattoni fanfic with the same title. I copied a lot of lines and I used some parts of the song. I'm sorry for the copyright. I was young.

          Deja vu.

          Here I was, yet again, gripping the railing of the bridge, ready to jump.

          Except the fact that this is a test. I would jump again tonight. If I die, no one would care. Quite honestly, it would be better this way. And if I will be saved again, I would stop hurting myself. I would find my savior and get my questions answered.

          I had done this before. Why am I so afraid to let go now? I was afraid I wouldn't be saved.

          I quickly shook the thought away. I wanted this. I wanted to die.

          I turned around and closed my eyes. Scenes came flashing right before the darkness I saw.

          I watched my shallow breath turn to white air as it swirled around me in the atmosphere. Sitting on the edge of the bridge, I gripped onto the railings. I couldn't feel my hands, but somehow it found its way to my jacket pocket to pull out my phone. I unlocked it, my vision becoming blurry as tears start to prick my eyes. I opened my texts and saw the last text message I sent to my friends, begging them to answer, pleading God to somehow tell them to stop me from huting myself. But they didn't answer. I know they have read my texts, they always did. But they ignored, like what they always do.

          I closed my phone and slammed it on the railing of the bridge, watching cracks form on the shiny screen that was once perfectly smooth. Maybe it's time for me to go. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then jumped. Everything went black.

          My eyes slowly opened to see the ceiling of my room. I jolted up, fully awake now, and jumped out of bed. I ran to the bathroom and flicked the lights open. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. No broken bones. No marks on my face. No proof I jumped. I was wearing the same set of clothes I wore last night. Was it just a dream?

          I remembered my phone. I slowly reached for my pocket and found it there, broken. The large crack I made is evident on the screen. It wasn't a dream. I really jumped. Then how am I still alive?

          I opened my eyes and gave myself a moment to feel my quivering body against the cold, misty air. "I HATE MY LIFE! NO ONE CARES ABOUT ME! EVERYONE HATES ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE THE PERFECT LIFE! WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP ON JUDGING ME? PLEASE, STOP," I shouted as tears roll down my cheeks. Voices start to echo in my mind. "Your father doesn't even have money to buy you a cake for Christmas! Kudos to your December 26th birth, you have nothing to eat!"

          Like always, I cared too much. I was hurt by the things I shouldn't be hurt by, and I cared about the people who left me in the dust.

          I lifted the sleeves of my jacket, glancing at the faint scars I have on my wrist. I was hurting on the inside, so I hurt myself on the outside, too. I felt the tears flowing from my eyes. Maybe I should go.

          It's already midnight. I closed my eyes, keeping in mind that I have lived an exact 18 years on this planet. I turned around, and slowly leaned back. I recall the moments that lead me to this as I wait for my body to slam on the ground below. I said goodbye to all the memories and lies to my face.

          It felt like tons of broken glass were piercing into every pore of my skin. I look up one final time and saw a figure looking down on me, screaming. Crying. Begging. Pleading. Weeping. I tried to call out to tell him that I'm sorry. I opened my mouth.

          That's when everything stopped. Or at least I thought it did.

          I felt my feet against the coarse ground. I looked around, and a few meters from me was a commotion of people. A flood of onlookers were behind a long yellow line the troop of gendarmes must have placed. I walked closer and was surprised that the officials didn't stop me from getting any nearer to the scene.

          It was a man, with his back on me, kneeling beside a body of what seemed to be a lifeless teenage boy. He was hugging him, weeping badly to the loss of his life. Beside him was a red box with a note placed on top.

          The policemen pulled the man away from the corpse, and at that moment, I was scared. A mixture of emotions flew through my entire system. But there was no beat.

          My trembling hands slowly reached for the note on the box of the old man. My dear son, I'm sorry if I did not give you the chance to celebrate Christmas with a cake. I was badly saving for your birthday. Happy birthday, son. I love you to the moon and back. Love, Papa.