Seventeen Years of Despondency

Seventeen years of a strong passion of hate

Ever since I was little I can never remember liking myself. Well it was more than just "not liking myself" that's driven me this low. I have a strong passion of hate towards myself. I suppose that was one of the main factors that has caused me all this pain. But it wasn't just that, it was the beings that I surrounded myself with, and my parents; well it's not what they did, it's what they didn't do. They were too caught up with work to even notice that the only thoughts racing through my head were not in fact to do my chores before they got home. The thoughts were focused more towards the downside of my position in this cruel, cruel world.

Like I know I didn't have it that bad compared to others. Some people don't have a roof over their heads or don't even get the option to eat. It probably seems a bit selfish now that I think of it. Is killing yourself really that selfish? I gave up my life so I could be better off, happier. No one really cares about you until your dead you know? I can see that now. Looking down on my parents there still mourning over last months catastrophe, blaming themselves when it really wasn't all their fault. They were only a contributing factor to why I did what I did.

There's only one thing that gave me the slightest pinch of hope throughout the whole major conundrum. And I guess that's also the thing that ended up tearing me to shreds in the end. Or should I say who? I told him my head was a very dark place but he didn't listen. I caused us both more pain than I should have. So many tears were shed, but it was also the happiest year of my life, not that it was very joyful (considering it was my last).

Anyway, this asshole was also the only person who I ended up loving in my whole entire life (family included). Sad isn't it? That all my happiness was circled around the source of my pain? But now that it's all gone, I almost wish that I could have all that bad stuff back, so that I could have the good again.

His name was Quentin. Quentin Black. Which is ironic because black's all he ever wore. He seemed to pull it off though, contrasting it with his bleach blonde hair that always stood tall. His eyes were a steel grey of colour. And they were the most intimidating set of eyes I ever came across in my cut-short seventeen years of despondency.

People get tired of you being sad. Then they leave, even though they said they wouldn't. And now that I'm gone for real this time, they act like they're surprised, when they all saw it coming.

But I didn't die from suicide; I died from sadness. So here's a few important blips to what drove me to suicide.

This is not a love story; this is my death story.