letters to you

letter thirty one.

letter thirty one.

dear you,

my familiar bottle of jack says it's story time.

my dad once told me i was worth as much beer was left in the bottle in his hand.
he then told me to get him another beer because that one was empty.
[if you're too dense to realize, and you very well might be, he was calling me worthless, or telling me i was worth nothing.]
i, being twelve, was stubborn as hell and very ignorant.
i told him to get it himself.
i'm serious.

god, i was so stupid.

he then proceeded to smash the beer bottle on the end table next to his filthy recliner, and mangle my forearms to shreds with the ends of the broken bottle.
your forearms bleed a lot, let me tell you.
i wouldn't recommend it.
well, at least to an overdramatic twelve year old, there was a lot of blood.
and i mean a lot.

i took our cheap one-ply toilet paper and wrapped it round and round my bloody skin, until the paper stopped turning red.
when i finished, i locked myself in my closet sized room and slept from six to eleven at night.

then, i dragged myself back into the bathroom, and doused my skin with rubbing alcohol so it wouldn't infect.
fuck it stung.

when i was finished, i wrapped my wrists again, and went to bed.
i skipped school the next day, and wore long sleeves the rest of the year so teachers wouldn't ask questions.

-me

//

i should've waited till tomorrow to post this, because it's a longer letter, buuuuut whatever!

and, i'm sorry if i worded it wrong before, but this story is not over!! it's only about half over! we've still got a longgggg way to go!

can we get to sixty votes? and can i have some feedback on this chapter, because i'm not sure if i worded it okay?

please and thank you :)