Fix You [Vic Fuentes]

Prologue

I never really had many friends. I was always the friendless kid, everyone said I was the loser, the outcast, the nobody.  

And I really did believe it too. No one saw me for the kid who liked to sing, or the kid who could play the guitar, or the kid who tried to make everyone happy even though everyone treated me like shit. No, everyone saw me as the weird kid who had a dad that drunk until he passed out.  

I was never really given a fair shot, I was judged and I guess that's why I hate myself so much. There is so much pain, so much hurt, that I can't really do as on the good things about myself. I just look at all the bad things that everyone else saw.

I sat in the corner of my room, And I thought of all the things that went wrong in my life and how I wish I could change it. But I can't. Although I am certainly trying to.  

I huddled up to the wall behind my bed, laying flat on my back so if my mum or dad came in here they wouldn't see me. I am too scared to face my mum, especially my dad, Although my dad is an alcoholic, he isn't abusive, although that's what everyone thought. He would hit me and my brother on occasion but it was nothing too serious to be classed as 'abusive', I'd rather call it having a bad temper and not controlling his actions.

I shifted uncomfortably and ran my fingertips up my arm, sending a cold chill over my body and feeling all the bumps from scars that I tore through my skin in the past. They had a pink-ish tinge to them and were scattered all over both my arms, not just in one spot. Each scratch, each cut, I remember exactly where and why there are there. Its sad right? Feeling so much hurt that you have the need to put a razor to your own skin, to feel something that lasts only a few seconds. At first I didn't think I'd become addicted, I mean, who does think they'd ever become addicted to anything? I thought that I'd do it once, or maybe even twice, but each time I kept promising myself it'd be the last and each time I'd change my mind.  

But then my mum found out and she was furious, and only a small part of her was supportive. All she was focused on was getting me help, and not even listening to what I had to say. I wish She never found out. She is too observant. I wish she never noticed the fact I never talked to anyone, I wish she never noticed that I spent all my time in my room and that I lost my appetite. I wish she never saw the scars on my arms when my jacket sleeve snuck up revealing them. Sometimes I even think I hate her. Every time I look at her I just want to tear off her head because of what she is making me do, which is why I am hiding underneath my bed.  

I don't want help. I don't need help. What I need is a hug, and someone to tell me its alright. But I don't have that.

I looked up onto my bed and saw my suitcase sitting over the duvet, and realised that my mum wasn't kidding when she said she was sending me to a mental hospital. I thought she was, but a small part of me knew she wasn't but I refused to let myself to believe it. And now I see that damn suitcase sitting on my damn bed, I know she isn't kidding and I am going to a hospital for crazy people.

I hate the people at my school for making me this way.

I hate my dad for making the people at school believe that he was abusive and I wasn't good enough.

I hate my mum for sending me to this bloody hospital.

And most of all,

I hate myself for letting it get to this point.