The Dead Man's Arsenal

Chapter Six

**Scarlett's POV**

Tears streamed down my face as I glared angrily at my phone. It was lighting up, flashing, screaming, screeching at me as I cried. I had it's been a while by staind playing loudly to cover up the sobs of my crying from my father as he stumbled around the hallway screaming at me to shut up, that he wishes he aborted me when he had the chance. That I was the biggest mistake he made because if it wasn't for me, he would still have my mother alive and breathing.

I was with him on that. I wish he would have aborted me too because I wouldn't be living in the hell I call a life. With a dead mom and an alcoholic father who hated my guts. I can't even do anything right. All I can do that's right is anything illegal. I can drink and smoke anything better than the boys can, I can race a truck, car, anything with a motor and be just fine. I can do all the illegal stuff amazingly but as soon as you take away the illegal stuff I'm nothing but a piece of trash who got forced into a gang. I'm a waste of space, I don't help anyone do anything. I don't help or donate to charity. I suck up food and water and space. The world would be a lot better without me.

But at the same time, who would brave against the issues that someone has to fight every day. I am a soldier, I deal with the world's issues. The anger, the sadness, the madness, I deal with it all. But I'm still just a waste of space. No one really NEEDS me alive. They would be better off without me. I'm overdramatic. I'm depressing. A waste of space. A delinquent. And so so much more.

I let out a choked sob as I look over at my phone. The small device beeps and buzzes as it flashes at me, catching my attention enough to make me check it. There were three texts from Aaron.

Are you okay?

Scarlett

Are you coming back?

I finally decided to answer, it wasn't my best work. But it got my point across, the message read;

Nope. I'm dead and being buried as we speak.

I clicked the power button on the phone, watching the screen go black.

"Aye, it looks like my soul. Solid black." I say with a chuckle to myself.

My phone lights up once again, another text from Aaron. This one reading;

I'm actually worried. Are you okay?

I swear, this boy is stupid. No, I'm not okay. I'm being tortured by the school because of the lesson they are making me do. I hate myself more than I hate life. Should I continue on with the list of obvious things wrong with me?

My lies flowed out a little too easily as I typed out this message.

Why wouldn't I be? They took a cliche and made it into my life. I'm Sooo fine.

It scares me, it scares me how easily lies flow out of my mouth anymore.

"What's that bruise from?"

Gets the response, "oh it's nothing. I just bruise easily."

"Why are your eyes so red?"

"Oh, I have really bad allergies."

Or; "Are you okay?"

Then you flash the most charming smile you can, and say "I'm great, how are you?"

All you have to do is direct the question from you and it goes amazingly. People love to talk about themselves more than they do other people. It makes it a million times easier. But I also worry about others more than I worry about me because I know I will never take my own life because I'm too worried about the people who care about me. The ones I would leave behind.