Diana Thompson hides behind a capable facade. One that's also strict and a little coarse. In reality, she's frightened, all of it is something she uses to deal with a past so shocking she'd never reveal it to anyone.
She was born in a town called Ri...
Everyone wants to be accepted by a world that is unacceptable - Unknown
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
☪Diana
Hope.
I think that's where I went wrong in life. Hope was the only thing that helps me get by, but it just screws me over instead.
Gripping the bottle with my hands, my eyes swivel towards the back of my head in a distressed sense of a headache.
I tilt my head towards the stars as I take a long swig of the dark substance that affects me so strongly. I sigh in relief as everything begins to feel open, in the blink of an eye. My breath is the underlying cause of the smell of alcohol that enters my nostrils, and my mouth is sore from the amount of alcohol that I have poured down my throat.
I am an alcoholic.
I guess you can say that I get it from my dad. Because truth be told, my dad is a champ at being drunk. Sure, being an alcoholic isn't hereditary.....but it's still considered a mental disorder.
Maybe that's what I had, a mental disorder.
"I have a mental disorder!" I yell, to nothing in particular.
I chuckle humorlessly.
I am an alcoholic, who maybe has a mental disorder. I think that's why I'm on the top of this bridge right now. I am going to jump, finally ending this shit that we call life.
I can't deal with humanity anymore. Actually, I just can't deal with all the trauma I've been through.
A walking failure at the age of 22.
Honestly, I'm just shocked it took me this long to realize it.
My stomach contracts so violently that I have no time to react to what was happening. Chunks of food covered in the creamy chyme from my stomach are propelled into the air and splatters on the pavement. I cringe at the taste and smell but still manage to wipe my lips with the hem of my shirt.
I try to stand up but fail miserably, falling back down on the cold concrete. I stand again and stagger towards the end of the bridge. Climbing on top, I take a seat on the bridge railings.
I take my phone out of my leather jacket, typing in my pin code to unlock it. Clicking the gallery icon I scroll through my photo album, my eyes automatically landing on one particular photo.
It pisses me off, seeing that this one photo could make me release so many unwanted tears. The photo was taken nearly fifteen years ago, showing my mother and father smiling, holding hands, as me and my brother looked to be playing.
