My friend calls his dad "Hitler" and I used to think that was a bit too harsh and unfair to his dad and to any dad - back when I loved and adored my father: when he was my everything because my parents had separated and my mum left me with my dad. You could say that a part of me still looks at him with the eyes of a twelve year old boy and still calls him his role model; but that part is minuscule, faint and almost non-existent. (Plus it'd be really weird if I made a murderer my role model - so maybe my dad is also Hitler?).
Things started going downhill a few weeks ago like a house crumbling down to nothing but redundant rubble to litter the once sturdy foundation. I think I have the right to blame my teenage hormones because sometimes I feel like the world is ending. Also, the house was our home - and I was unable to salvage my self-esteem from the rummage. Let me clarify the previous statement: I don't feel like the world is ending, it's more like I am living but breathing for nothing. Philosophical thinking tends to light overthinking bonfires that are only doused by calming seas of depression that just form waves that rock my dead body to sleep. Depression feels like home sometimes - I can't really call it depression, I'm not diagnosed: for now let's blame the hormones. During the last few weeks I've been converted to an insomniac by suicidal thoughts - luckily, I am too much of a coward to pull a trigger, swallow some sleeping pills, slit my wrist or fill up my room with Carbon Monoxide fumes; for now. (So in a way, Depression's tidal lullabies rocked me to a lack of sleep.).
Each night, it becomes more plausible, I feel as though I am actually mustering up enough courage - however, I am not going to commit suicide just yet (I know you're surprised, so is the noose I made and knives a few footsteps away). It's because of her... and because courage always has an expiration date. Because of her, I've been taking the bus to school, because of her, I feel guilty each time suicidal thoughts seep into my brain, because of her, I'm living, breathing, for love (well, romantic feelings - love is a strong word... too strong to define emotions evoked by teenage hormones). I know that it seems ridiculous: a fifteen year old boy - a teenage boy - living for a girl and not himself or drugs or sex. I also think so, I know it's not a smart way to start a story because now a huge percentage of you will categorize my story as the typical "emo books written by emo authors for emo teenagers". My story isn't one of those.
Mine is about a journey towards self-confidence, self-acceptance and poetry - how it ends... is far from poetic. And my name is Leroy Williams and I am living for Emily Grey. (Yes, the cliché prologue is over.).
YOU ARE READING
I live for her
Short StoryLeroy Williams doesn't think breathing makes sense anymore. But she, Emily Grey, keeps smiling - so for now he keeps trying to breathe. [COMPLETED]
