notes | michael clifford

i.

/ amelia /

Fourteen. That's the number of suicide notes I have. Fourteen notes bundled up under my twin sized mattress. Each note says something different. Some notes are two sentences while others run two pages. Most people would probably wonder why I write so many notes and not just one not that I'd stick with. The answer to the question is that I don't know why I write so many notes, sorry if I disappoint you, but all I know is that I want to leave this place, and by this place I mean earth.

I'm a seventeen year old girl with pale skin, dark brown hair, and blue eyes. That's my exterior nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special. But that isn't all, I'm a seventeen year old girl with pale skin, dark brown hair, blue eyes, scars on her forearm with fresh marks on her wrist, a mother that passed away several years ago, a father who purposely drowns himself in work, and an unrequited love.

His name is Finn. I never in my life would think I'd use beautiful to describe a boy, but I find myself using beautiful all the time when it comes to describing him. His perfect smile, laugh, eyes, nose, and from what I've witnessed personality.

It seems like I'm just a naive little girl who is sad because the guy doesn't like her back. I wish it was just as simple as that, bit believe me it's not. Most of the time I feel like there is this permanent rain cloud floating above my head. I've tried to shake it, but it doesn't disappear like I wish it would. It stays bad gets darker, and darker, and darker, until it storms leaving me feeling gut-wrenchingly empty. I have a problem, I admit it. I need help, I know it. Even if my dad was around enough for me to tell him, I wouldn't be able to. It would break him.

The yellow school bus came to a screeching halt in front of the place where I could truly invisible. School. I have one friend who wasn't really invisible at all, her name is Daisy. People notice her everywhere we go due to her fluorescent pink hair, gorgeous looks, and vibrant personalties. It's safe to say opposites attract.

I like to think my high school is like a fish tank. You have your big fish like Finn and the your little fish like Daisy. I think of self as on of the hundreds of little pebbles lining the floor. I don't even stand out enough to be a fish in this fish tank school.

I placed a few books in my locker and took a few out like I did every morning. "Amelia," Daisy squeaked. I looked at the vivacious girl standing at the locker next to mine.

" I met a guy this weekend, his name is Ashton, and he's in college, and he's in band, and he's the drummer. How fucking hot is that!"

I sighed, mainly because I had no clue what to do.

"He invited me to his band practice and he said I could bring a friend, well as long as it wasn't a guy friend, but why in the name of Dave would I bring a guy," she rambled.

Daisy lived with her extremely conservative Christian grandmother until she was thirteen. Whenever her grandma would get flustered she would ramble off men's names instead of taking the Lord's name in vain. This was yet another reason I admired Daisy so much.

She continued,"It's tomorrow after school at this kid Calum's house. You can come right?"

I nodded my head yes and she got all giddy. "You can give me a ride there right," I asked.

One of Daisy's flaws is when she likes someone she gets a bit spacey and starts to forget things, especially rides. " Of course I will," she sighed.

The bell rang signaling it was time to get to class. I hurried down the hallway to make it in time and luckily, I did. Not only was being late one of the largest pet peeves of mine, it also entitled you to be the center of attention. That being something I entirely loathe.

The first half of the day went by like it always does, and then most of the second half of the day went by being perfectly normal. I was about to leave, but Mr. Santos called my name. There was a boy who I recognized from most of my classes "Amelia, may I have a word."

My heart was pounding as I walked to his desk, "Y-yes Mr. Santos," I said warily.

"Miss Scott, I'd like to inform you that you are failing."

This couldn't be happening, I had always got an A on everything. I swallowed a lump in my throat. "Mr. Clifford will help you after school. I want you to pass this class Amelia," Mr. Santos played concerned.

My eyes started to feel moist and I rushed into the hallway. I couldn't cry in front of someone I've hardly met before. The boy followed me out into the hallway which was practically empty now, "Listen girlie," he said, "I'm not too excited about having to do this either."

My hands started to shake which they always did when I was nervous. He was intimidating to say the least. The boy stood several inches taller than me. He had a voice that almost yelled danger. A voice that made me want to turn and run, yet in an odd way his voice compelled me to stay.

"I'm Michael."

"Amelia," I replied. I felt his eyes roaming up and down my body leaving me feeling more self conscious than I was comfortable with.

"Are you alright with coming to my house today," Michael asked.

I nodded.

"Is now good," he asked.

"Now is fine," I replied.

He nodded gesturing me to follow him. We reached the parking lot, he pointed to a sleek black motorcycle. My heart stopped for a second. Michael lifted up the seat and put his book bag in and I gave him mine so he could do the same.

He gave me a helmet and I placed it on my head as Michael did the same. "Hold on tight, darling," he started up the bike and zipped out of the parking lot.

I let out a yelp of excitement. This sense of freedom excited me. I was a bird flying through the sky, a little kid on Christmas, a school girl with a crush.

My face was pressed against Michael's neck. His back vibrated from the laughter. I felt bad about how hard my grip on his mid section and released a small bit. He sped up again and my grip became harder then it was before.

On the back of Michael's motorcycle, I felt invincible.

Hello friends. Thank you for reading.

First of all, i'd like to clear up that this story was not written to romanticize depression or self harm. These are too important factors in my story, but please do not think it's artsy for one to have a mental illness or self harm.

Anyway, would you pretty please vote and comment. The votes mean the world, and comments help me whether they are good or bad.

Xoxo, join my french fry cult