Bits and Pieces

The Defect

A/n- This story has themes of despression and hoplessness. It carries serious tones- and it's rated PG-13 for a reason. Don't read this if you are really young. The main charcter is just so hopeless- she does some things that aren't a good idea. Don't act like her.

It's also based off a tumblr post, which I'm sure some of you have seen. I've linked the blog in the external link, so If you've never seen the post with the picture on the side, you don't need to read the blog. But If you haven't ever seen that picture, go read a bit of the blog, but still come back and read this.

Also to note- I wrote this kind of interestingly. It's a bit like If I Stay, If you've ever read that.  It is backstory then, the real life story. A couple times, I use two asterisk to show time passing.

Finally- I DID NOT KNOW OTHER PEOPLE ON WATTPAD WHERE WRITING STORIES BASED OFF OF THIS POST!! I knew of the blog I linked, but I never read any of those. I only read the orginal post, which I couldn't find in a format I could link to wattpad.

I really this story. Anyway, Enjoy! 

Luv ya,

Alex

**

Imagine being told you are a defect.  

It sounds like it would hurt, doesn’t it?

And it does. But I’m not talking about it being spoken in a moment of anger. When you had really messed up, and your father is yelling at you. Your mom is standing in the corner, trying not to look like she’s paying attention, but you know she is.  Your little brother and sister are in their room upstairs, huddled together, silently crying, knowing they can’t escape. Dad is yelling louder, you're crying, but you don’t feel weak. Maybe you’d yell back, or maybe you’d run away and never look back. And while you are running, tears blinding your vision, you hear him scream his last words to you.

“You are a side effect, a Freaking defect.”

And you never look back.

And maybe my situation is not that dramatic. In fact, I know it’s not. But I think it compares, though. Because when you’ve got parents, siblings, classmates and an entire culture screaming those words at you- every second of every hour- there’s something you do.

You begin to believe them.

*

I’ve always been defected. I was born early, and I survived. Back then, my parents were happy to have me. I went into the back room of the hospital, where they tested me to see when I was getting a Counter. And that was when it occurred. The nurse dropped her instruments and left the room crying.

I certainly wasn’t the first. But of all the people in the world, why was it that I had to be the Defect?

Couldn’t it have been that boy in the back of my class, the one who doesn’t talk to anyone anyway? Or some person with some disease, a person that came out of the womb with the knowledge they wouldn’t live a full life?

But it had to be me.

It would be a lie to say I’ve made my peace with it. I haven’t. I still stay up till midnight to cry in peace, or starve myself so I can at least look desirable. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t matter. In that moment, in that hospital, I was doomed. In fact, I was doomed from conception. So I wish my ills on other people. Or I pick up a knife.

Because that pain is comforting compared to the pain I have now.

The pain I am doomed to live with, the one that hangs over my head like a bright yellow caution sign, telling people to stay away from me.