Faith • hs •

3 | A New Friend

WARNING: MENTIONS OF SELF HARM BELOW 🔽🔽

Faith's POV:

The cool breeze lifts the damp hair at my temples and ruffles the hem of my skirt, as I tug on it trying not to let the chilled air from lifting it higher.

I sigh, placing my arms on the railing of our porch, watching people walk on and about. I've been at it for an hour or so, super bored, not knowing what to do.

Grandma's at work, and she already asked me to go and help her, but I've been watching people walk in my neighborhood instead. I also fixed a few things of my rooftop painting from yesterday, that got ruined by the weird, mysterious boy who showed up out of nowhere. Now that I think about it, how the hell did he climb up there? He's one insane boy. Did he really think I was jumping? I wouldn't do that, to be honest. I wouldn't want to cause the people I love —my Grandma— pain, if I kill myself. That's just not right.

When someone's depressed, they directly think that no one loves them, that no one cares about them. I personally think that's wrong. Because, as much as their family bring them suffer, they truly love them at the end of the day. They're their family after all. They're the ones who brought them into the world.

I am depressed, yes. I am suicidal at times, yes. But, I would never actually do it, for the sake of my Grandma.

I tug at the sleeves of my shirt as well, trying to hide every scar.

I laugh bitterly to myself.

My scars and I have a never ending relationship. Ever since I turned thirteen, I started to cut. Why? My life started to get darker and worse that year. Mother started to come home later than usual, drinking more, and last but not least, beating me up. She wouldn't lay a finger on Noah, my eleven-year old brother, and I still don't know why. I felt unloved back then, and locked up. Literally. She used to lock me up in my room alone, and when my sobs would make their way through her ears, she would kick me in the ribs.

I started to cut after my first beating, and I was scared back then. I almost threw the blade away, but when my hip ached from the beating, I just went for it, and dragged the blade across my wrist.

How pathetic.

My second attempt at suicide was when Mother threw me against the window, it breaking, and some shreds going through my head. She refused to take me to a nearby hospital, so I took care of it myself.

A year later, she threw me out obviously. And now that I think about it, I'm very grateful she did. If I stayed one more second with her, I would've died—not on her hands, but my own. I never understood why my own Mother would do that to me, but then again, it's for the best.

So, yeah, my life is just like any other depressed teenage girl. Nothing special.

I don't notice that a few tears escaped my eyes, as I quickly wipe them away.

How pathetic.

I look down at my phone, my eyes widening when I see it's already 2 pm. Grandma told me to be there at 1!

I hurriedly get down the few steps, going to the garage to retrieve my bicycle, while slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

Quickly riding it, I move my legs faster to get to Grandma's boutique.

Ten minutes later, I hop off the bicycle, throwing it at the ground carelessly. I go to run towards the door of the shop, but instead of going straight in, I barge into someone's chest, bumping my head with the person's as well.