Dear World, this is the story of how everything started and ended. This is the story of how I tried to live but, failed. This is the short version of the story that narrates my suicide. I waited eight days before I did it. There are eight reasons wh...
I wake up Tuesday morning, mentally exhausted from last night. Last night I cried till my eyes crusted over, my throat sore from screeching, drool slipping from my mouth, and my head pounding from the heat that I could not release as a metabolic waste.
I dragged myself out of bed and turned on the shower, without arranging my bed or assembling an outfit for the day. What's the point in trying if it doesn't work? What's the point in eating if you're just going to starve later? I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, silently despising the fact that I'm not the person that I want to be. As I got into the shower, I could feel a fragment of myself leave, taking away anything that was left. I slumped down to the shower floor, wallowing in my self-pity, allowing the water to slam violently onto my face, temporarily drowning myself at certain times.
As I drowned in the water, I let my thoughts wander high into the clouds. Would anyone care once I did it? Would anyone feel happiness towards the fact that I ended my miserable existence? For the most part, I thought of the moments when I used to be content, the times when I didn't know what nothing was. There was this one time when I went to visit my grandparents and they took me to the local petting zoo. I can remember clutching to my grandfather's leg as we passed through the butterfly greenhouse, jumping in excitement. A beautiful light blue butterfly came and landed in my hair, making me giggle when it fluttered away.
There was another time that I can remember when my mother cuddled me close to her chest after I came home from a rough day at school. The kids were picking on me again and I cried all the way home on the bus. I ran off the bus, into my mother's awaiting arms, telling her of the simplistic problem I was undergoing. She took me into our house, sat me down on the couch, and allowed me to sit there and cry till I had no more tears left.
I miss that side of my mother, the side that loved me no matter what I managed to do, the side that always reassured me of her love every day, the side where I knew I could find serenity, the side of her that treated me like an infant regardless of how old I have grown to be. Perhaps that's the reason why I can't bring myself to place blame onto her for the way she is now. I can't rip myself away from the image I have of her in my mind.
That what happens in life. People grow dispassionate as people grow older. Things become difficult to process, things start to become difficult to deal with on your own, and things happen that a person can't possibly plan for. That's why the species of humans aren't as great as they would like to think. Humans can't adapt as easily as other species, humans can't evolve as nearly as quickly as other species. Mankind only wants to plan for the future and never wants to change the "perfect" plan.
A man can have everything he has ever wanted but, it can be taken away. It happens all the time when someone feels like they are on the top of the mountain at one moment then, in the next moment, they aren't on the mountain at all. Most people choose to mope around, never attempting to climb the mountain again, letting the circumstances beat them.
I tried to avoid becoming one of those people, I tried to pretend that what my father did to me never happened, I tried to pretend that I couldn't hear the whispers, despite hearing everything that everyone said. I strived to adapt, to live. But, I failed.
I couldn't pretend that I don't constantly feel (felt) disgusting. I feel disgusted by the way his hands roamed all over my tiny body. I feel disgusted that I have gained the weight that I promised I would never gain. I'm disgusted by the fact that I don't seek to defend myself against the hurtful behaviors of others. Most of all, I am disgusted that I am still breathing.
Maturing has changed me in ways that I can't explain. I no longer look into mirrors to make sure that I don't have food on my face; I look into the mirror just to point out the imperfections that lay on my face. I don't eat the food that I desire to, in fear that I may gain even more weight. I stopped telling people how much I love them because I know they don't partake in the same emotions.
My mother's fist pounding on the door brought me out of my reverie.
"Laiyla Cosette Trembley, you have been in the shower for forty minutes. You're going to be late for school if you don't get out of there right now," that's my cue to get ready for the day. I get out of the shower, throw on a Cavaliers baggy hoodie, black leggings, and my pair of black furry Bearpaw boots. I ran into my room, grab my backpack, ran to the kitchen and grabbed some Starbucks coffee that my mother bought from the grocery store.
I achieved making it to school, only ten minutes late. When I walked into my first hour, the class was already working on their essays so I doubt that anyone noticed my tardiness. As I sat down in the only open seat left, I almost choked on my own saliva when I saw whom I was sitting next to.
Ace Voulturri, the known balcony in my school. Everyone tries to avoid sitting next to him, in fear that they may become his next victim. Although, I don't really fear him if anything I don't know him. I don't listen to the gossip that goes around about him for two reasons. One; I think it's rude to listen to something that you have no way of knowing its truth and origin. Two; I try to stay as far away from gossip as humanly possible.
Once I sit down beside him, I can hear the gasps come from my fellow classmates. From the corner of my eyes, I see Ace move closer to me, his hand clutching a pencil in his left hand.
"You're left-handed?" it wasn't any of my concern.
"Nope," I could feel the confusion spread across my face as I couldn't stop the question as it flew from my mouth.
"Then, why are you writing with your left hand?"
"I just write with my left hand in this class so that Ms. Forest can't read my handwriting," he lets out a laugh as my giggle has a small snort behind it. "That was cute."
My cheeks heat up when he says this. I doubt he can notice the blush through my caramel tinted skin.
"And, you're blushing," I was able to smell the slight mint radiating from his breath each time he spoke. For the rest of the class, we talked. Well, Ace talked while I listened and chimed in whenever he wanted me to.
Maybe, I can adapt but, if I can't, I want you to know reason #4.
Life.
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Hai, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The journey is halfway over and I would love if you commented your feelings, thoughts, and suggestions for this book and the next book below.
