Destiny: Diary of a 15 Year Old Psycho

Self-Harm

I carefully tugged the door knob down, preventing it from notifying Dad that I was home. As soon as I entered, there was an overpowering aroma of beer and spirits. I tiptoed up our narrow stairs and went straight into my room. I couldn't believe it. All of my pictures were smashed. My windows were wide open, letting the icy breeze refrigerate my tiny room. My pale blue duvet was spread across the floor. Loud rock music was bellowing from the kitchen. I melted onto the floor, holding the pieces of broken pictures in my hands. I saw a cricket bat beside my drawers. Had Dad used this to trash my room? The picture of Mum was the worst. It was when all three of us went to France when I was 11. Dad's smile was so wide, it exposed of of his yellowing teeth, though he didn't seem like cared, he was so happy then. Mum looked beautiful. Her porcelain skin glowed in the illuminating light of the bright sun, showing her tiny brown freckles. I looked a bit odd in my floral, luminous pink sun-hat, but I had two parents who loved me, standing right by my side. How could I ever be sad?

I cut my fingers on the broken glass. Blood gushed out of them rapidly. I loved the pain. I deserved the pain. It made me feel better, as if the evil was pouring out of me like a waterfall of emotion and sadness. I picked up more pictures, slicing my bloody hands into shreds. I screamed at my mess of a life. I was a psychopath, harming myself to believe it would make everything better. I yelled again. I was alone in the world. Why did I have to kiss Adam? He was the last thing that my life had to offer that was good and pure. Now his mum hated me. Everybody did!

The deafening music from downstairs came to a sudden end. I was immediately silent. Loud footsteps. Getting closer and closer to me. There was no avoiding him. The breathing was heavy and husky, as if he was a bull waiting to attack. I shouldn't have been scared. He was the angry alcoholic. He was the abusive father. I was an innocent child.

My door burst open, knocking white flakes off. Dad's large face was creased and screwed up with his thick, ebony eyebrows curving downwards. His muddy eyes were red and dry, with his dark eyelashes wet and spiky, as if he had been crying. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" He yelled. His croaky voice echoed throughout our small street. "Why is there blood all over you? You're turning into a flaming psychopath!" He raged, clenching his rough fists tightly, making his hands turn purple. "You're the one who smashed up my room. You are the lunatic!" The dog next door started barking loudly and persistently. "Do you want to wake up the whole bloody neighbourhood?" The crimson blood was still dripping from my frail finders. I wiped them on my black jeans and held my my head in my hands. "Dad, I can't help the way I am. Maybe if you hadn't raised me in such an unstable environment, then I wouldn't have ended up like this. I know I was always a 'happy' child, but since Mum died, you have been treating me like crap!" I sighed, though I was relieved that I could finally share my feelings. "Plenty of people have it a lot worse off than you. You're only a kid for goodness sake, and you're probably going to be in a loony bin by the time you reach eighteen" I screamed, standing up and kicking him. I pushed him, again and again. Until he was out. Until the whole world was locked out of my room and nobody could ever disturb me again. I picked up my duvet off the floor, and shook all of the shattered glass onto the floor. I gently lifted it high above my head, allowing it to flutter down elegantly onto my small bed. I jumped on it carelessly and buried myself under the thick covers.