When Will Class 3-F Get a Break?

Touma Part 2

 I hate myself. It might sting to say that but it's true. Actually, it feels kind of good to say that out loud. I do in fact hate myself and I am not the healthiest of people...mentally. I suffer from a consistent torture. The torture of living. At the age of 16, I've already given up on this world. I want out and I've tried "out".

Suicide.

Sad but true. I've tried to end my life multiple times. But with my "condition" I feel as though this is an impossibility. Of course, my parents don't know this but I have actually tried to kill myself 45 times. I've tried various suicide methods to end my life; all have ended in failure. It all started on the first night 8 months ago when I finally decided to try it. I took a bottle of prescription pills and washed it down with some of my father's alcohol. Then I went to bed hoping to never open my eyes again. The effect should've destroyed my insides within a couple of minutes but the concoction did nothing. I found it strange that I hadn't died when I woke up the next morning, so I labeled it as a failed suicide attempt, and when to school like I normally did. That day in class I almost shit myself due to the mixture passing through my bowels unexpectedly.

Another time, I had studied up on how samurai wives would end their lives through jigai. The process sounded so romantic. I was never interested in having a husband, however, the method still intrigued me. I waited until my parents were asleep and set out plastic so they wouldn't have to go through the trouble of cleaning up my blood. I was always a generous daughter. I even went through the trouble of buying my own knife instead of using one from the kitchen, which would've been much easier, that's how generous I am. I drank my tea that I had prepared to relax my throat muscles, this was essential for the ritual to go right. My blade was so thin from the excess sharpening I did that it was able to cut through a tatami mat like butter. I was ready. My knife was a few centimeters away from my throat before I hesitated. Was I having second thoughts? There was no turning back so I quickly jammed the knife into my throat before I could change my mind. I could feel the air stinging my open wound and the blood running down the knife and eventually onto my fingers and hands. It was warm. I knew exactly where the jugular veins were from my research and made sure to completely sever them and the carotid artery. I wasn't coming back from this one. I woke up several hours later. The plastic and my clothes were not only blood free but my wound was also healed. It was like it hadn't been cut at all.

Since then I've tried asphyxiation, hanging, drowning, poisoning, jumping from high places, so on and so on. Every conceivable suicide method has failed when I've attempted. The inability to end my life has caused me even more depressed. So eventually I stopped trying. I go to bed at night and hope that this will be the last time they close. Fate is cruel because when I open my eyes the next day I'm back in the nightmarish hell that I can never escape from.

Today, I woke up and got ready for school. The usual morning in the life of Touma Uma. I didn't die in my sleep and of course, this made me bone crushingly depressed. So I slugged on with my morning. My parents, who were happily in love, greeted me as I came down the stairs. My father was making, as he calls it, a heart healthy breakfast for me and my mother. As I sat down my mother gave me a huge smile and a kiss on the cheek. She did this every fucking morning. I hated that she never noticed. Her or my father. They looked at me like everything was fine. All I wanted them to do was to ask me if I was okay or not. All they had to do was ask that one question and maybe my depression would be on it's way to being cured. Telling them wouldn't do any good. They would have to ask. They would have to actually care. That was the only way to save me. But they never noticed and they never asked. Because unfortunately for me my sadness would never show on my face. No matter how depressed I was it never manifested into a readable expression. My father presented us with our breakfast and smiled.