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 woke up this morning, happy and careless. I didn't feel like I was ten steps away from falling off the edge of the cliff, I didn't feel the nothingness hugging my body as I was drawn into consciousness by my alarm clock, I didn't feel the constant fear of myself and the idea that I might slip away. I felt like I could finally tell the difference between living and existing: living is carefree, relieving, and full of air while existing is burdensome, acidic, and detoxicated. I can actually live my life without having to settle for existing.
Last night, I dreamt of Ace. I dreamt of his mint green eyes staring into mine as I laid beneath his body, my hair spread around me like a halo, his brown hair falling into his eyes, making me blush with the way he looked down at me. His large muscles sculpted into my smaller body, our skin rubbing together in the most delicious of ways. Our breath intertwined like hands as he rested himself on his elbows, his muscular body hovering over mine. Our lips moved softly against each other, ending with Ace gaining dominance over me, not that I minded.
I think my mood caused my mother to stare at me weirdly. She almost dropped her cup of coffee on the floor when she saw me walk into the kitchen, a large smile resting on my features. My mother watched me the entire time as I made myself a cup of mocha and grabbed a yogurt cup along with a metal teaspoon.
I got to school and was met with Ace and his friends standing by my first hour. As soon as Ace saw me, he wrapped his thick arm around my shoulder, leaned down, and placed a slight kiss on the side of my face. His friends laughed when my cheeks became inflamed with blush.
My happiness was soon snuffed like when a person puts out a candle's flame. I could see the way people stared at us while they hurried away to their class. They were all wondering why someone like him would give me the time of day. How could someone as gorgeous and perfect as Ace share feelings with someone whom is a complete mess? I only stand at 5 feet tall with thighs that are classified as thunder thighs. My large thighs lead to my wide hips. My legs are on the stubbier side as my waist is freakishly small. My shoulders are marred with scars because of the picking I subject them to. Moving up my body, my black hair reaches to my mid back, my lips are so big that they naturally pout, my eyes are almond shaped, and my face has a more roundish shape. Plus, I have small eyebrows and a caramel complexion.
Compared to him, I look like Smeagle from The Lord of The Rings. What would people think when they saw us in public? Would they think that our interracial infatuation was cute? Or, would they wonder why a freak like myself was with him? It huts me to think that I can't have the only thing that my heart yearns for. I want something that makes me feel like I have someone (even though I push him away at times).
But, I can't have what I want. The universe doesn't allow disgusting beings like myself to live the way they want. No, the universe crushes me with every chance that it gets. The universe doesn't care about me; why should it? Why should the universe care about someone as insignificant as myself? Why should anyone care?
She didn't care about me. She sat and watched as I endured the lessons that he taught me. She remained quiet as the life was slowly leaving my eyes, draining me of the childhood that I deserved. She sat there, playing her sick little mind games, watching as I started displaying the signs of what he was doing to me. Do you want to know how I knew that she knew? I knew because the same thing happened to her. I could tell by the look in her eyes, it mirrored my own.
She quietly watched as I came into her life, trying to forget about the pain that plagued me every time I closed my eyes. That's why she never tried to connect with me; she was guilty about never stopping him. She couldn't look into my dark brown eyes because she knew, all too well, the pain that dwelled there. She was never there for me; no one was there when I would get into the shower, scratching my skin (trying to rid my body of his touch) till my skin bore red marks. But, I needed her. I needed her to tell me that things were going to get better, to tell me that life meant something. I needed her to share the pain that I carried, I needed her to carry the load that I couldn't. I needed her to tell what happened to her before it could happen to me. She didn't do what I needed. She laid there on the couch, watching me, with pity clear in her pupils. I can remember how a smile never graced her face, probably because of the burning rage inside of her that forbid her from feeling an ounce of happiness.
I blame her for what happened to me. I blame her for the way his arms would wrap around my waist, pulling my body further into his, making my behind push into his front. I blame her for the way his breath passed onto my neck due to the closeness of our bodies. I blame her for the way he ruined my body as a child. I blame her.
She's the reason why I have to cut myself in order for my monsters to release. She's the reason why my mind runs wild with psychotic thoughts, the reason why I had contemplated suicide.
I want to forgive her, I want to pretend that I'm not an inferno, I want to find comfort with her because she knows my situation. However, I can't do that. My mind won't grant me the ability to forget the past. Instead, my mind drives me to look upon her with pure hatred.
He was the first domino and she was the last one. He started the cracks in the dam and she finished breaking it. She is just like him, whether she chooses to recognize the fact or not. That's the difference between us. My skin crawls whenever I am around hin while she practically worships the ground he touches. I have fear of him while she walks around like everything is all peaches and cream. I hate the fact that we share the same DNA coursing through our cells. I hate that, whenever I look at her, I see myself. I see myself because I'm doing the same thing as her; I'm not confronting him for what he did. I'm not helping his new wife's grandchildren. I hate her. I hate myself.
I can feel my mood going further and further down. I want to drown my lungs with seawater, I want to stop the flow of oxygen that is involuntarily entering my body, I wanted to feel the blood pound against my veins till they explode into my organs. I wanted to feel the being of my heart stop, I wanted to feel the pain as it replaced the nothingness. I wanted to choke on my blood as it ended my life, the blood becoming my only true way of living.
Ace might fill the void for now but, he won't always be enough. I know that nothing will make that nothingness go away. I know that I can't make my life prolong for longer than necessary. But, I want to try. I want to try to live, no matter how painful each breath may be.
This is reason #6. My half-sister.
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