My Name is Andrew Lee Cooper.

Chapter Eleven

(MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING; SUICIDE)

My mind is made up. I can't do this anymore. I just can't do it.

Worthless. Girl. Ugly. She, her. Fat. Unlovable. Undeserving. Pathetic. Friendless. No one likes you. Annoying. Deceitful. A liar. A pathetic excuse for a life. A waste of air. A burden. Useless.

I look over to my left and there is Asim. I know now that he isn't real. But he talks to me like he is. But when he gets like this, it's like he's an animal. he's some sort of beast that taunts me. Begs for blood. He barks and growls and says all the negative things I think about myself.

Everyone hates me. No one likes me. I have no real friends, besides Elliot. I have no one other than him, and he doesn't even like me. Not even just as a friend. I'm a terrible friend, anyway. I'm so annoying and I talk too much and I'm a waste of space and air.

I look down, and the bath calls to me. I timidly reach my hand out to it and turn the knob. I make the water a little warmer than lukewarm and plug the drain. I stand from my kneeling position and walk over to the bathroom counter. I run my fingers across the knife I stole from the kitchen. It's one of Mother's favorites because it's the sharpest, and it's small and compact. My fingers make contact with the cold, cool metal blade and I almost shiver. Goosebumps appear on my bare arms and I look up to the mirror.

She mirrors my unpleasant stare, and she runs her fingers through our badly cut hair. She shifts uncomfortably in our clothes, and my tears building up in our eyes. She cries along with me, and I want to yell at her.

Get out; get out! You're not even supposed to be here. You're not even supposed to exist.

She seems to smirk at me.

Well, you're not going to exist pretty soon. And everyone will be happy and life will be a hell of a lot easier without you. Soon, it'll just be me they have to remember us by. You'll be long gone and finally out of their hair. They won't have to bother with you anymore.

She's right. I grasp the knife handle in my hands and I can see her reflection in the blade looking at me; mocking me. I set the knife down and go back to the tub. I dry my tears and notice the tub is just about completely full, so I turn the knobs and water stops gushing out of the faucet. I return to the counter and pick up the blade. It's calling my name, telling me to use it.

Without hesitation, I dig the knife deep into my wrist and drag it across my arm. I do this multiple times on both of my arms until I'm coated in a layer of bright, cherry-red blood. My arms sting and scream at me. I did it a lot deeper than I usually do; but I usually don't have the same intent that I do now. The intent to end it all.

Blood drips onto the floor and I know that once I'm finished it'll probably look like a murder scene to anyone who enters. And they'd be right. She's killing me. I can't tolerate her any longer. I can no longer take people calling me her name, people assuming we're the same person. People telling me we are the same person. We're not. But people press on and insist we are. It's like I don't even exist. It's like my whole existence is a sham and a lie; and it's hard to prove I'm real because the only real evidence I have is inside my brain.

I walk over to the tub and don't even bother getting undressed. I climb in, fully clothed, and let my hair and outfit soak up water. The water turns slightly pink, and then turns into an even darker pink as time moves on. I close my eyes and try my hardest to not regret leaving Elliott behind. He'll be okay. He has other friends. He doesn't need me. He doesn't even want me. He never did. He doesn't like me; he just takes pity on me because I'm a freshman. I'm small and useless and annoying. I take up space and other people's time and I bother people. I'm just a nuisance. I don't really mean anything to anyone. My own mother doesn't even want me. The only person who may truly need me is my sister, but Mother won't hurt her and I'm an awful role model. I'm an awful person to look up to, and now when she gets older she won't remember me. Hopefully she won't remember how terrible I am and how fucked up I am. I hope she remembers, if anything, the good times. The laughs. The pillow fights, the tickling matches, the swimming races, everything good. I hope she doesn't know I took my own life, and I hope she never finds out. I would hate for her to look at me like that; see me as unstable and unhealthy, although that really is what I am. I would just hate for her to see me like that.

The room is getting blurry and the water isn't that transparent anymore. My arms hurt; they sting and they ache. The water almost makes it worse but I'm not moving now. I can hear my phone vibrating and I can almost guess who it is. If I had to bet, I'd bet it was Elliott. Or maybe my mother calling to yell at me and tell me I'm in for it when she gets home. Maybe I shouldn't have sent that text to Elliott. He was the only person I contacted before doing this, and that's because I had to say goodbye. I couldn't just do this and say nothing. I never said specifically what I was doing, but that it was a final goodbye.