Wronged

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- Anna's POV -

Before being taken away from my old house in Raygus, I often thought about death. At least, more than I do now. I welcomed the idea of a pitch blackness surrounding me. And honestly, I didn't care what happened after death. I just wanted my current life to end.

There could be fire everywhere, or white clouds with people dressed in white gowns scattered in the air. There could be absolutely nothing except for that blackness, and I wouldn't of cared. Hell, even reincarnation didn't sound like a bad thing.

But after I got the treatment I needed from medical and mental health doctors, I took it all into a different perspective. The finality of death makes sure that you take the easy way out. You don't get to try and fix things. You aren't allowed to come back and say, "Never mind! I didn't mean to die!"

And that's weak. Suicide is weak. Killing yourself is weak. Staying alive through it all is strong. I'm not a weak person. I hate giving in, into anything that I'm against. And I won't hand over my life to something as stupid as pain and depression.

I take a deep breath as I find my toiletries in my suitcase, my final bag to unpack, and take it into the add-on bathroom. It takes around forty-five minutes and fifty-two seconds to actually get it all situated. But then it's my room. My bathroom. The color scheme and everything in it is me.

My eye catches sight of the blade kept on the side, spared for when I need to switch it out on my razor. But I use it for multiple things...

I pull up my hoodie sleeves and glance down at my wrists, which are covered in white small dashed scars. I never cut deep enough to hit anything vital that won't stop bleeding, but I do go in enough in order to feel something. I have to feel. And if pain is the only way to stop be from spiraling into a pit of numb darkness, then so be it. I refuse to go back to thinking weakly again.

I pull my sleeves back down to conceal the marks and go back into my room, a small smile taking over my lips when I see my guitar. After school yesterday, I came into my room to find the instrument lying on its side.

I sit on my bed and let the wooden Fender body rest on my lap, neck outstretched to the left, where my fingers graze the six rough steel strings. The guitar has and will always be my love. It's the only thing that makes me happy. And I like keeping it to myself. It's one of those things that no one can take away from me. Not even the government.

I didn't ask Ms. Morgan where it came from or if she got it for me. I didn't even thank her. I just kept it with me all night, tuning it, playing it softly, and in general, just holding it. It gave me a sense of comfort.

On my nightstand is my song journal. I grab it and open up to a new page- on the eighty-ninth page. I have songs of all sorts in here that I wrote in that basement. There was a cheap Schmidt guitar down there with me, and I taught myself how to play. Everyday I'd play it. The silence killed me, so I had to have something that provided sound other than my own voice.

I jot down the events that occurred yesterday, like I always do when starting a new song. My lyrics copy my life and my life only. There isn't a single word in here that doesn't relate to true events. I guess it's more of a diary than anything...just in musical form.

A sigh emits from my lips after I finish taking notes, and I close the notebook and put it to the side. My fingers stroke the strings from E to E very slowly. I need to now figure out a chord progression to base it off of.

Slowly, in four/four time, I finger pick the chords, Bm, A, G, and D (on the second time around) to create a bittersweet sound. It fit the mood of the lyrics perfectly.