I was sitting in that room. She was the third therapist I've ever seen. I told her everything that I had done, that I wanted to do. She said we need a plan to keep me safe.
Moma walked if after the writing. She told moma while I was crying. She said that I had felt like dying when I was called the wrong things or see the red numbers. She listened, I hope she didn't forget.
She said she was a horrible mother. That I deserved better. I thought maybe I should've been quiet. Moma said she couldn't take me anymore after a while, money didn't let me live.
She still calls me the wrong things and I will always see the red numbers.
Moma I want to fucking die.
I told you I didn't know how to try.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
Short StoryWhenever I have an idea I write it down. Includes: Demons and angels Dark thoughts Horror imagines Love story Sad endings Paranoia
