I was six when my mother died. My father was never the same after. He said he loved me. He said he could never hurt me. Fucker lied.
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Okay so I know a lot of you have abuse, self-harm, and suicide triggers so I'l...
After everything that happened Saturday, I am not ready to go to school. I just want to sleep in. But of course, I can't do that. My dad will murder me if he finds out I skipped school. So Hell #2 it is.
I'm sitting in first period and I just want to leave. We have a substitute and if I leave, she probably wouldn't care.
I grab my book bag and swing it over my shoulder. I walk straight out the door not even bothering to ask the sub if I can leave. I don't care if I get in trouble. I go to my locker and exchange my current books for my later period books and head off to my safe place.
I walk down the third floor hallway and stop at the maroon colored door with chipped off pieces here and there revealing the white paint underneath. I pull my necklace out from inside my shirt and take the key attached to it in hand. I look around to make sure no one sees me and then unlock the door. I take another look around before slipping into the room quietly.
Turning around I switch on the light and sigh in happiness. This room is a janitor's closet but they "lost" the key to this door and didn't have a spare. So now this room is all mine. I found it my freshman year when I was hiding from some assholes trying to beat me into speaking.
But that's a story for another day.
That year, I made this place my own personal art room. I began stealing supplies from the art room that I could use. Halfway through my ninth grade my art teacher started to notice a lot of his supplies were missing and reprimanded all of his classes. I felt bad at the time, but not bad enough that I turned myself in. At the end of the year, I would take all of the supplies that I had left over and return it to my teacher. It was funny when he saw it all back. The look of pure confusion just had me dying of laughter. I even left a note on a picture I painted saying I was "Sorry for taking your supplies but I needed something to work with to do this:
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He loved it so much that when his art supplies began disappearing the following year, he never said anything. I think he knew in the back of his mind that whoever was "stealing" his supplies, would bring it back once the year was up and with a new work of art for him to admire. And he was right, because every year I did the same thing. He has the three paintings I did up on a wall. He says that sometimes he would wonder what grade this artist was in so that he would know if he was getting a new one or not. So last year I made sure to let him know he would receive a fourth one. So he figured out that when it all started, the artist was a daring freshman taking his supplies.
This is the only place in the entire school, or even world, where I feel safe and peaceful. I don't have to worry about anyone finding me or just walking in because I always lock it and I have the only key. If I could live here I would. I wouldn't even be phased by the fact that I'd be living in the school.
