Broken Poetry

The Past Makes Me

Short story

Under the stars I lay, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall. I close my emerald eyes and let my blonde hair flow within the winds that gently kiss my skin. I toss and turn above the green grasses, my small figure now swallowed by the scenery. I shiver at the thought of another school day, one that carries a large and heavy weight upon my shoulders. Days of torture, hellish hatred, bullying, and the fight to survive. Nights of endless homework, with no will to move. Constant battles within my head, fighting over what to do, and not to do, I just can't take it anymore, I've gone past my breaking point.

I get up, sluggishly slow, trying to push myself to move, to do something productive, but a heavy weight pulls me back down, and I fall asleep.

The sun comes up, over the horizon, and I realize that I've missed the beginning of school. Fearful, yet delighted for the consequences to come.

Rested yet still worn, I get up and head home, where my mother lay in bed, forgotten to the world, and my father stands angry, his breath filled with hatred and alcohol.

A darkness so great seeps under my bones, I take the hits that were bound to come. Under his wrath, I cower away.

Once the tears slow down, I pick myself up, and continue to my room, I get dressed and cover the bruises that freckle my pale skin. Off to school I go, contemplating, searching for the reasons as to why I even try. Why I continue down this bump filled road.

Depression and anxiety stay chained to my ankles, slowing every step I take down this path we call "life." Once I reach the classroom door, I hold back my hatred and tears, and put on a smile. As if it were strapped to my face, covering the frown, I wear it all day, even when I get pushed to the floor.

"Weak. Crybaby. Stupid. Worthless."

The words that force me to cry till I reach my sleep.

Kicks, shoves, curses and more.

I can't take it for much longer. I'll break and fall. Shatter into little fragments so small you couldn't see it with the naked eye.

Pushing and crying, I pull myself through the day. Beaten, bruised, tired, and wondering why I'm still alive, I pull out my phone, and call someone who cares.

His sweet voice fills my head as he comforts me and my misery. I tell him of my father and he threatens to call the authorities. Of course, I tell him not to.

I turn off my phone, walk through my front door and lay in my bed. In the room beside me, my parents fight and throw glass at one another while I try to make my limp body move to begin on homework.

But I can't. I'm too depressed, too drunk on medication, too tired to function, and I can't feel any pain inflicted on myself.

A thought so dark creeps into my mind.

What if I just end it all?

"No!" I scream.

And the tears begin to fall. I'm helpless, hopeless, lost and broken. I beg and beg for someone to save me, because I can't do anything at all.

Rolling around, choking on my own sobs, dying of depression. Maybe I should just end it all...

I get up, fill up a warm bath, and for some stupid reason, I text the one who cares.

"Help me."

I go into my book bag, and grab my pencil sharpener. Slowly I screw out the blades as if I were in a trance. My emerald eyes spill over with tears, and my pale face burns a bright red. I'm going to die tonight. I'm going to be free from this misery.

I settle into the bath, clothes still on, the warm water surrounds me and washes away my worries.

"Just end it all."

I grab the blades, and hover them over my skin, slowly, I press into my flesh, not deep, but just a taste.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and the one who cares has my hands in his hold. Tears stream down his face, as he pulls me from the water and blades.

That's when I snap from my trance.

What was I thinking?

He cries and cries while I hold him, I shake and sob while he comforts me.

"Suicide doesn't end the pain, it just passes it onto another person." He says as he wraps my wrist.

"I'm sorry... it won't happen again." I cry before I black out.

I lay in the green grasses, my hand in his. The problem has been solved, and I am happy again. We lay in the scenery, telling stories and jokes, crying and laughing, singing and dancing. I hold the scars of depression on my arms, people who take a look, frown and ask why. They do not see the beauty my scars hold, for they tell stories and emotions that I cannot put into words.

I get ready for school, and roll up my sleeves, the black and blue is gone and my father is facing his punishment. All that's there are my scars, in all their beauty. I do not understand why some people hide their stories. They cover their scars, and tell me to do the same, but you see, if I cover my scars, then I am hiding who I once was. If I hide who I was, then I'll be hiding who I am, for my past is what makes me...me.