Five: Scared
[Warning: Mentions; Eating Disorder, Suicide, Bullying, Abuse/Violence.]
I don't get it.
How do people find joy, comfort or any kind of positive emotion through hurting another person?
Everyday is like a battle.
I force myself to get out of bed, make myself look presentable and then deal with everyone at school.
You'd think just because Demi Lovato is my mother dearest, people would at least pretend to be friends with me in hopes of meeting her, but that's the exact opposite of the reality.
People treat me as if I was some inhuman creature, not at all like others; a target of snarky comments which build up and weigh me down to the point where I struggle to stand.
Only recently has it become physical.
It would start of with a push or somebody trying to trip me up, throwing a scrambled piece of paper at me; it evolved to slaps and kicks, my belongings being stolen and vandalised.
What for?
For existing.
Breathing.
Anything I do is wrong.
I no longer feel safe leaving my home, fearing someone is hiding around the corner to come and get me.
"Y/N!" I jump as my mother's voice booms throughout the house.
"Yeah?" I call back.
"Come down here right now!" Her stern voice startles me yet again, but not because it shocked me, but because she sounded furious.
As quickly as I can, I run down the stairs and into the kitchen where I see Mum leaning against the kitchen table, looking at my school report.
"What the hell is this?" She asks, showing me the piece of paper full of C's and D's.
"My report card?" I quietly answer, my tone questionable.
"This isn't a time for you to be a smart ass, Y/N. What has gotten into you? Why are you failing your classes?" She asked appalled.
Because they all steal my homework. They won't let me concentrate. They're too loud. "I don't know." I shrug, looking at my feet.
"Well, let me know when you find out, until then, I want you phone, iPad, MacBook, any electronics- I want them." She orders, pointing up to my room.
"Yes ma'm." I mumble.
Scared to be told off even more, I don't even bother to argue, quickly rushing to my room and doing as told.
"Here." I mumble, giving her all my devices.
At least now I won't be tempted to look at all the hate online.
"Up to your room, now." She hisses, taking everything off of me.
I shuffle back to my room with guilt filling my body.
I'm such a disappointment.
She can't even be proud of me. There isn't anything to be proud of.
In moments like this, living seems bitter and dying seems... peaceful.
I know it shouldn't.
But it does.
It scares me. I don't want to feel this way, just like I don't want to be a disappointing daughter and a failing student. But that's just unrealistic.
