Dearest~a Ryden

No One

**trigger warning**

As soon as I do I feel something.

Someone or thing grabs my arm forcefully and yanks me into another stall.

"What the actual fuck?" I yell.

"Shhh... I just want to talk to you. Forget what I said a minute ago. A-bout you being cute, I mean. But anyways, I need your advice," Brendon looks at me seriously. "There's a boy at this school who hurts himself, cuts. A letter fell out of my locker and I read it in Spanish, and that's why I got in trouble. You know, you where there."

"Mmmhmm, do you know what he looks like or anything?" I say slowly. Fuckity-fuck. Okay, this is bad. What if he calls me a freak without knowing it? Should I tell him it's me? No, then you'd never be his boyfriend, or even have a chance with 'em.

"He said he had brown hair and that he liked Blink-182. Well, and that he barely ate and that he cut. But let's focus on the positives."

"I'm afraid we shouldn't focus on the positives in this situation. The barely eating and cutting are the biggest secre-hints that you have about this boy. Do you know if he's in our grade?" I ask. Yes. Yes, he is in your grade. And he's literally sitting in front of you.

"I think so, but I don-" he gets cut off by the bell ringing, signaling us to go to class. "Okay, whatever, I need to find out who this person is. Talk to you later," he says exhaling as he grabs his bookbag.

~~~~ ~~~~

Home

~~~~ ~~~~

I walk into my house quickly and quietly. Don't want to wake dad. I sigh to myself as I walk up the stairs to my bedroom. The best place in the world to me.

I spend most of my time up here with my six-string and lyric book. Sometimes it feels like my bedroom walls are my only friends. But, there's Spence. So I mean that's one friend that I have in real life.

And there is the whole Brendon thing too. But he doesn't really count as a friend. I've known him one day, and that was today, so I mean. All things considered, I'm going to count him since I'm writing to him.

On that note, I feel like death. I'm tired, hungry, and questioning everything. The whole letter writing thing is making me feel weird. But it makes me feel better. Being able to vent to someone I don't know. I don't vent to Spencer anymore because all I do is bitch about the same things. I don't want to bother him again. Plus, I didn't see him at school today, so he's probably sick. That's not surprising because he gets sick more than the average teenage boy.

"Ugh," I sigh out loud, picking up my guitar and going to sit on my bed. Under my pillow is where I hide my lyric book. It's not like dad comes up here anyways, but I don't want to risk anything.  "Shit. I need a pencil........AHA!" Small victories for the win.

"Shut the fuck up!" My father slur/yells to me and before he can stop he adds a "faggot" to the end of the "shut the fuck up". Thanks, dad. I know you care about me. Note the sarcasm. Of course since I had the tiniest of victories, he kills my small bit of happiness. I don't know why I think life is sometimes worth it.

I get up, pausing, and then continue. Okay, dad is passed out now. I walk to the bathroom opening to cabinet.

Should I? I want to so bad, to end it. For sure this time. To be completely gone. I grab the pills pouring the rest of them into my hand. There is about eleven. I don't think it would be enough. There was less last time. When I tried. I regret trying now. Everything has gone to shit since the first incident. The first attempt, mom left. Second attempt, the word gets out, I lose my friends. Should I try again? They say third times the charm, so?

I'm not even completely sure what brought me to it the first time. I think it was the bullying. But I don't remember much. I've always been bullied about my everything. About my hair, my face, my weight, my openly gay-ness. I've known for a while. Since at least grade seven. That must of been it because attempt one was in eighth grade, that's when everyone left. No more sleepovers, no more food, no more friends, no more happiness.

I've always configured to other peoples words. I should know that everyone will not like me. I know I will probably never find true love. But if I know these things, why do I let it get to me? Why do I believe it? It's inevitable. Like death. Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

I drop the pills back into the container. Not yet. Not today. Save your pills for tomorrow. Or the next day. But, tonight, I won't.

There's something stopping me from doing it. I don't know exactly what. Maybe it's Spencer? Possibly Brendon? No, no, can't be him. Or maybe it's mom. She's thinking about me and how I'm hopefully happy and smiling all the time. And how I'm with my girlfriend right now. Ugh. Moms, right?

Before I walk back to my room I look in the mirror. Smile. I can't. I see a boy. A bruised, underweight, cut up, loser.

Look up. Look at yourself. You're pathetic. You still have the pills. You could still die.

No! Stop. Fight your mind. You are okay. You are alive. Breathe-in and out.

I walk to my room with tears in my eyes. I'm going to lose one day. One more battle is about to be lost. Ah, room-sweet-room. I walk over to the box sitting there on my nightstand. I love the sound it makes when it opens. The sweet creak of old wood on old hinges is a glorious sound.

I pull out the metal.