Prologue
I inhale the nicotine of my cigarette and ran my hand throught my messy hair. Im currently walking around in my pyjamas in NYC. It's 4 in the morning so i'm not worried about anyone seeing me. This is when I feel the most unwanted, standing here, in the middle of Times Square, screaming and sobbing, thought no one takes notice. I begin to wonder if I even have a purpose. My parents tell me all the time that i'm a disgrace to their family and I look like i've been pulled off the streets. I wish to scream at them and tell them that i'm broken and I need someone to mend my heart. Though no one seems to know how to sew.
My name is Tate Walker. I'm 16 years old and I'm a sucker for sad songs. I also wish to become a writer and get lost into my own stories.. I create these images and people that I wish to bring to life yet i'm suffocating in their fake stories. I'm beginning to realise that no one wishes to hear about my protagonists or the people I make up, they're all stuck in their own lives and leave me to drown in my sorrows. A great example of this would be, my parents. I once tried to warn them, to tell them, that i'm not okay, that i'm harmful, but only to myself. My father reacted in the worst possible way and beat me. He beat me until bruises began to surface and tears began to roll down my swollen cheeks. He screamed at me ' I'm your worst enemy and I will always be here to hurt you when you need it !' which made me see that he doesn't realise what i'm doing to myself. He doesn't see the scars that run down my thighs are not from his beatings though they're from the many times I wished to die. He doesn't realise how many times i've stood at the end of our city's bridge and wished to jump into the bone-chilling water. I've been so close to ending my life but what keeps me going is the love stories I like to write. I get engrossed with the idea that this could always happen to me.
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