A Gorgeous Mess Of Trouble

Chapter One

Here I am.

Again, laying down in the crappy bed, my body doesn't have the power to move. Wires and beebing machines attacked to my arms, legs, and head.

The beebing only reminds me I'm alive. The people around me, I hear them in a muted sound. Not one word coming through as a real word, it's just one big soup mixed with letters and words without any meaning.

Not that I would care in first place what these people are saying.

Probably something like;
'Oh, her again.'
or 'Poor child.'

They don't feel sorry for me, once I leave these doors, I leave their thoughts. Who is she? Nobody knows. Nobody remembers. You probably wouldn't either. Even I wouldn't.

But yea. I am here again, my mission once again failed. It's the fourth time I tried. With no succes. Or the car stops. Or the train never comes. Or someone walks in. Always something that holds you back.

Some people would see it as a sigh to stay alive, on this shitty place called earth.
But me, it's a sigh to try harder- on dying.

My wrists have cuts in it, this time they're deeper. Bigger. Painfuller? No, I don't feel them as.. pain, it feels.. more like a reminder that you are able to even feel a thing.

But like I said, here I am again, failed. The reason why all of this mess happend was when I was seven years old.

My father and mother, both addicted to the white powder that gives you a giddy mind and makes you forget about the world. And the liquid that makes you remove your thoughts and laugh about everything.

But for them? They see me as a little toy, a little toy to annoy. First it wasn't any harm.

They would call me names.
No problem.

They would throw a pillow at me.
No problem.

Later on, they would call me names again.
You start to believe them. Since they're the only adults you have in your life, you believe them, you do are worthless, you are a slut, you are their biggest mistake.

Fast the pillow becomes a plate. That again becomes a knife.
Sometimes it hits you, sometime it doesn't.

I would cry in the begining, cry of what they said, of what they've done. Now I don't even lift an eyebrow in suprise. I would even start laughing if they miss my head. I smile brighter at them, instead of looking at them with fear and red watery eyes.

But it makes them mad, so they became worse.
I would go to school with a cut in my eyebrow, scars all over my body. They don't question about it.

I'm just a joyfull seven-year-old girl that loves to play outside and fell by accident on the street while playing.

And oh, they all believed it.

So I was the problem, the reason I didn't talk, my fault. The reason I was rude to others, my fault. The reason I would talk back to a teacher, my fault.

They only see you, your side. Or atleast that's what they tell themself. Never question about what your situation is at home, they just come up with a little lie inside their head and would be like 'sounds legit.'
It's not that she gets harmed at home. Defenitly not.

When I was fifteen, I tried the drug. It felt nice. Walking on clouds, being happy for no reason, having a goofy grin plastered on your face. I loved that feeling, being happy- for no reason.

I would take more the next day. And more, then I had an overdose. Still felt nice.
I would lay in the hospital bed, people took care of me, no parents around, just in a little bubble on your own.