Chapter One:
Junior year is hell. I hate it. I hate everything about it. And the worst part is that I'm only two months into it. I still have lots of junior year left.
I watch people go by in the hallways. I watch the popular girls in their Hollister jeans and chambray tops, their long hair glossy and their tanned skin flawless. I watch the jocks in their jerseys and jeans, pushing each other and talking in their loud, low voices. I watch the dorks, nerds, ghettos, gays, suck-ups, stoners, emos, populars, and in-between-ers every day of my shitty life.
And every day I wonder what it would be like to be one of them. I wonder what it would be like to not hate myself. But I can't imagine a life besides mine. I can only see my hideous face, my fat body, the knotty scars on my thighs. I can only see the imperfections because in my case, there are no perfections.
I remember when I was younger and skinnier and prettier and more popular and I remember looking in the mirror to find smooth, unscathed legs. I remember looking in the mirror and smiling because I loved who I was. Now I look in the mirror and cry because I am only bad things and bad things deserve to die.
I was going to kill myself this summer, but I couldn't make myself do it. I brought the blade up to my throat and I placed it there, but my heart pounded too loud and my breathing became too intensely ragged. My body wanted to live and even though I was begging my brain to allow me to dip the knife into my windpipe, my brain resisted. My brain forced my arm down. I had to be content with sliding the knife through the flesh of my thigh instead.
I haven't tried overdosing. Mum is overprotective and keeps the pills locked up. The knives, however, are in the kitchen drawer. They are easy to get to. They are easy to use. I just slice and the crimson lines appear on my legs. I enjoy the sight of my blood. It looks beautiful, the only part of me that is truly breathtaking.
I look forward to the day my brain will allow my hands to move the knife through my trachea. I look forward to having rest. I'm so tired. I just want to sleep. Forever.
YOU ARE READING
Thirteen
Teen FictionShe's waiting for the day when she can sink the knife a little deeper, throw herself down a little farther. She is tired. She wants rest. She is waiting. He's waiting for the day when his stomach shrinks into nothingness, until he can take his last...
