July 7th

June 9

In movies, TV shows, stories, any suffering person will find someone, or something that will comfort them. It's so unrealistic. Like someone's just going to randomly care all of a sudden. I thought about all this as I sat up on the hotel bed, shoving my feeling aside for yet another day. I grabbed all of my stuff, and walked out of the hotel room, going to return my key. The receptionist at the desk took it and stashed it into a drawer. I suddenly felt sick, and rushed out of the hotel building. When I got outside, the sick feeling began to fade. Shit. Well, I guess this is what I have to expect with how I've been living. I thought to myself. Karma or some shit. I began to walk slowly towards the alley I'd been pretty much living in. When I got there, I say a group of guys standing there. None of them looked any older than 18. There was a taller guy with dark brown hair wearing an excessive amount of belts, a small, timid-mannered boy with pale peach colored hair and an oversized sweater, and, finally, Damion. As I got closer, I could see a smirk spread across Damion's face. "So, this is where you live, huh?" He half-said, half-asked in a condescending tone. "Screw off." I  growled, stopping right in front of him. "You don't know shit." 

Damion smiled even more. "Well, if Mika's a reliable source. . ." He began to say. My eyes widened, and I drew back a bit. "Just. . . Just leave me alone." I said. Damion laughed a bit, which irritated me further. "I wonder why Alina's been acting so weird." I said bluntly, now smiling a bit myself. What I said obviously shook Damion's confidence a bit. There was only silence for a while. The two other guys just sat at watched as this all went down. Despite Damion being two years older than me, he was still only an inch or two taller than me. Suddenly, without warning, Damion lunged at me, slamming me against the wall and punching me in the stomach. The taller guy joined in, grabbing and pinning one of my arms to the wall. I took a few blows before trying to reach into the left pocket of my hoodie, where my pocketknife was. "Cut it the hell out!" I yelled, pulling out my pocketknife and flipping it open. The blade barely grazed across Damion's hand, drawing blood. He screamed in pain. "Shit!" Oh god. I thought, looking at the gash on his hand. I actually cut his hand. I immediately felt guilty. I wanted to apologize, but instead, I shoved all my remaining humane thinking aside, and just yelled, "I said to leave me alone!" 

"You're a fucking psycho!" Damion screamed before running off, with the two other guys following closely behind. I sighed, trying to pull myself together. I looked at the blood that was now on my pocketknife. I knew it was wrong to hurt others, and I did feel bad for cutting Damion's hand like that. . . But, at the same time. . . it gave me a strange sense of. . . control. Something I had such little of normally. I wanted more of it. I wanted to hurt someone again. But. . . Maybe worse. Maybe more.