The Innocent Can Never Last

Scars

Billie Joe's POV

"Billie Joe Armstrong! Get yourself down here right now!" yelled Steve, my stepfather, from the bottom of the stairs.
I rolled my eyes, and gently placed my old blue Stratocaster guitar up against the wall next to my bed, wondering what the hell I was about to get yelled at for this time. I opened my bedroom door and walked out into the hallway, feeling my stomach knot up as I prepared myself for the blow I was about to receive. As soon as I reached the bottom of the stairs, Steve began brandishing several pieces of paper in front of me, shouting, "What is this?"
"Looks like my mid-term grades to me," I replied, in a somewhat snotty tone.
"Don't take that tone with me, young man!" Steve yelled, as his eyes flashed with anger.
"You asked," I retorted, and Steve tensed.
For a second I thought he was going to hit me, and I winced, and waited for it to come. Instead of hitting me, though, Steve simply took a deep breath, and said, "And are you even going to try and explain why you're flunking in every subject but English?"
"Probably not," I answered.
"Why have you suddenly stopped applying yourself in school then, can you tell me that?" Steve asked.
"Are you that blind?" I asked. "If you weren't too busy being a jerk, you might have pulled your head out of your ass and noticed that I stopped 'applying myself' months ago!"
Boy, I had done it now. Steve looked ready to kill.
"Boy, how many times have I told you not to talk to me like that?" he thundered.
"Steve, the last time I checked, my dad's name was Andy, and that sure as hell isn't your name, so I'm not going to listen to you," I sneered. "You're not my dad."
Steve's nostrils flared, and for a second I was reminded of an old Godzilla cartoon that I used to watch as a kid.
"No, I'm not your dad, and thank God for that, but while you are living in my house, you will obey my rules, you will respect me, and you will do better in school, whether you want to or not," he ordered.
"Is that so?" I replied, and Steve nodded slowly. "And since when do you care about my grades?"
"I care about your grades because I want you to finish High School and get a decent job, so that you don't have to live here any longer than necessary," Steve said menacingly. "The sooner you're out of here, the better."
"Well, at least we agree on one thing," I said sarcastically.
Steve sneered, and said, "Oh, if only your father was here to see what a brat his precious little Billie Joe turned out to be."
"You never even knew my father, how would you know I was his 'precious little Billie Joe?' " I inquired.
"Believe me, Billie Joe, I know. Your mother talks about it all the time. How close you were with your dad when he was alive, and how much you missed him when he died...how much you still miss him," Steve said slowly.
Tears sprang up in my eyes, as the reality of Steve's words stung me.
"You bitch," I muttered, as I bit my lip, in an attempt to stop the tears.
"What did you say to me?" Steve asked, as his face began to turn purple with rage.
"You heard me," I answered, as the knot of anxiety in my stomach got tighter.
Steve stared angrily at me for several seconds, as his jaw tightened, and his fists clenched together. Then, without warning, he reached up and struck me across the face with all the strength he could muster. I stumbled backwards, as the pain shot up my face.
"Go to your room," Steve snarled.
I didn't need to be told twice. Without hesitation, I turned on my heel and high-tailed up the stairs, never looking back once. When I reached my room, I shut the door, lay down on my bed, and began sobbing uncontrollably.
Every day for the past six years of my life, Steve had always found some way to make me feel bad about the fact that my dad was no longer around, and every day for the past six years of my life, I had tried to find some rhyme or reason as to why my mother had married him. Couldn't she see that he made my life a living hell? Or did she even care? I used to be able to bare living with him. I mean, I never liked it, but I would just grit my teeth and bare it, anyway, for the sake of the family.
But now that all of my brothers and sisters had moved out, life was almost unbearable. Being that I was the youngest in the family, I had always been the one that everyone looked out for the most, and now that everyone was gone, I was having trouble getting used to the fact that I would now have to take care of myself.
My last ray of hope had disappeared six months ago when my older sister, Anna, had moved out and started attending UC Berkeley, which was about an hour from here. It had all gone downhill from there. Life had gotten so bad that I had even started cutting myself when nobody was around, just to ease the pain that I was forced to deal with.
Speaking of cutting...I wiped my streaming eyes on the back of my sleeve, and crawled across the bed to my bedside cabinet, where I opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a straight razor. I then pulled up one of my sleeves, and gazed at the long, ugly scars that ran across my forearm, some of them old, and some of them still very fresh. I was about to lay myself open, when I stopped, and thought, 'Why not just do it now? Why not just slice my wrists right now and get it all over with?'
Suicide had been an option for me for quite a while now, but I had never actually had the guts to do it - until now. I took several deep breaths, fought back the urge to vomit, and then, without hesitation, I lowered the blade to my wrist and slashed it open viciously. I sucked in a deep breath as pain shot up my arm, and then I rolled up my other sleeve and cut my other wrist open as well. Pain began shooting up both of my arms, as I rolled onto my back on the bed. I whimpered and moaned, as I looked down and watched as crimson red blood poured out of my arms, and drenched my clothes, and my blankets as well. White-hot pain shot through my whole body, and I leaned over and threw up over the side of the bed. More tears poured down my face, as I reached over, grabbed my phone, and dialled the first number that came to mind. The phone rang several times, before a familiar voice finally answered it.
"Hello?"
"Anna..." I moaned, as the room started to spin.
"Hi, baby, what's wrong?" my sister's voice suddenly sounded worried.
"Anna...it hurts..." I sobbed, as I was blinded by white-hot light.
"What hurts, baby, what hurts?" Anna asked, in a panicky voice.
I was about to reply, when a final surge of pain shot through my body. I screamed, and then everything went black, and I knew no more.