She Doesn't Care . (Being Edited)

Alive . ; Chapter Nineteen .

I’m jammin’ out to some fucking Dubstep and House right now , needless to say , I’m in a preee’ good mood . I wish there were raves around here , but no . My town and my state , SUUUCKKS . Ya’ll who live in more interesting party places , you’re fucking lucky . xD I’d kill someone for some rave here!

Needless to say, YOU HAVE TO CHECK THE SONG OUT . It’s fucking filthy! And for those of you that don’t know , that’s good . (;

I’m pretty syked that a shit load more people are starting to read this story . So really , thanks a bunch bros . It means a lot . <3

I'm so proud of myself for getting this far, and at this point, I know I'm going to finish this . Which makes me so happy, you don't even understand. So all you guys reading, well, you're my inspiration to finishing this thing. <3

Annnnd, seriously. Private message me, or chat me, and give me some suggestions to where you think this should go . Don’t feel stupid, I’ll take anything and everything, and more than likely use it. Along with dedicating a chapter to you. Common loves , you know you wanna . :p

I’m going ghetto , if you haven’t realized . laaawl . ( No , that’s not offensive , so don’t take it that way . )

I know this isn't that long, but it was a kind of hard chapter to write .

Anywhom! Enjoy your chapter ;

                I didn’t even go to the funeral. I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t. I couldn’t sit through a ceremony from someone who never even knew him. How could the priest explain how great a person he was, if he didn’t even know him? I couldn’t sit through the tears. I couldn’t sit through the family. I couldn’t take the condolences; Nothing.

                I was weak. I am weak. I couldn’t even see my own brother be laid to rest. That’s the one thing I regret in life. Being so weak, I couldn’t say a final goodbye. What kind of sister was I? To let my favorite person in life be sent away from the world, without a goodbye.. I’m horrible.

                You know, I was the one that found him? You’re the first person I’m telling this too, Doc. I was the one that walked into our apartment, and found him dead, on the couch. At first I thought he was sleeping, but no. He was too still, too silent, too cold.

                He looked peaceful, for the first time ever though. I remember that, that one part – the look on his face, when he died. He wasn’t frowning, and he wasn’t smiling, no. He was just there. Just one with the world. Just passive.

                That fucking bastard. That asshole left me alone in this fucking dull, sad world. He left me to live a sad life, with no one that understands. He left, and didn’t take me with him. Why? Why would he do that to me? I had nowhere to go, but spend my nights with odd random men. Why would Ryan leave me like that?

                After that I gave up on schooling, and especially gave up on life. I spent the day doing drugs, and the night in a stranger’s bed. It wasn’t as fun as it sounds. I could do whatever I wanted, but I mostly just wanted to die. I had nothing left to live for, and I didn’t want to continue on.

                Mind you, I was only sixteen. I was sixteen, living on the streets, having sex for money, and addicted to drugs. At this point, it was no longer just Marijuana. It was heroin, coke, LCD, acid, anything I could get my hands on. I was waiting for an over-dose. Almost pleading for one.

                I didn’t know what to do with myself, honestly. I was totally and completely lost. I felt isolated, hopeless, gone. I felt like I was in someone else’s body, living their life, just watching it through my own eyes. I felt like I was already dead, gone from the world, and every little thing I hated. I didn’t know how to cope with my new found addictions, with my brother’s death, or with myself.

                Self-mutilation was my answer to all prayers. When I hurt myself, I felt real. I felt like I was alive. The only time I ever felt like that was right after shooting up, or snorting a line. But with the burning, cutting, scratching, I felt like I was me. With the drugs, I felt normal. But normal wasn’t me, normal was psycho. When I hurt, I felt like I use too, like I did when I was a regular, everyday teen, living a regular everyday life.

The only thing I wanted was to feel alive.