Broken (A suicide story)

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I wasn't beautiful, heck, I wasn't even remotely cute. No wonder they said crap about me at school.

My hair was a dirty blonde that managed to look dirty, my eyes were a clear green, and I was very freckly sinced I unfortunately had ivory skin and I live in California. And my body; I had no curves and I was totally out of shape. Some stick-looking girl once said to me: "Hey, aren't fat girls, like, suppose to have a much more curvy body? I see you, and I just see...fatness." I was 5'3" and I weighed over a hundred forty pounds, so I didn't object when she said that. But that didn't mean it didn't sting me and cause me to cover up in clothes I disliked.

I changed into a baggy shirt so people wouldn't think I was as fat as I really am along with baggy jeans because my legs, as some people like to say, were elephant legs, only bigger. I didn't bother putting make-up. It wouldn't help me at all.

Downstairs, I smiled a little. Eggs and bacon with toast. "Mmm, that smells good."

"Of course it does. I made it," replied a snarky voice that belonged to my "lovely" step mom. The gold-digging whore that seduced my dad when he was in a weak state as soon as my mom passed away from cancer. She was sitting down at a chair by the kitchen table, her son Keith, who was a year younger than me, secretly smirking as he ate.

"Is there any more?" I asked meekly.

"Nope. Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all. And she was giggling as she went through a magazine.

"I'll just grab something at school then," I murmured, walking past them, but I froze when her cold voice sounded again.

"Miracle!" Yep, that's my name. Though people say it should be DISASTER.

I turned around, wanting to shout WHAT! but I merely said calmly, "Yes?"

"Now don't you dare waist your daddy's money like that!" Her glare made me swallow the dry patch in my throat. "I honestly don't think you're gonna die if you don't eat breakfast."

Then her stupid son had to chime in, "Yeah. You look fvlike you've eaten enough to last the rest of your lives. You should consider eating less." He was telling me this the way people would be telling you about their day. No hint of knowledge that his words stung.

"Kieth has a point," my step mom agreed.

Without another word, I clenched my jaw and walked away. My gaze landed on the shiny black Porsche parked in the drive way. It was Keith's. I remember my dad paying nearly a million dollars for a kid who was barely fiteen and just got his driver's license. My dad was going to buy me a car too, a Range Rover to be exact, but my so sweet step mom had convinced my dad to NOT to because I was young and could crash.

I was older than Keith, for God's sake!

So for my birthday, my step mom bought me some sort of transportation to take me to school.

An old, broken bike that she had bought at a yardsale for ten bucks.

Cursing, I got onto my bike and pedaled to Tulare Union high school. A.K.A, hell.

I was chaining my bike to the bike rack when the two people I hated the most walked up to me. Heather Ryner, a redheaded cheerleader who wears short skirts, high heels, and skin tight tops that show that she didn't have one pound of fat on her. I admit she was really pretty, but she also realy a whore that loved to make me cry. And Jordan Malik, a jerk who is the football's team runnerback, he is popular around here. Both are always on and off, but you can tell their when. And right now, they were definately on.

"Hey bitch, I need you to do my homework or I'll fucking kill you," Jordan asked me as nicely as possible, wrapping his arm around Heather's shoulder.