I'm Broken

Chapter 3: Whats Wrong with Me?

THREE

What's Wrong with Me?

​Every day since it's started—back in February—goes through my head. The first day, it was because of my accent and I was the new kid in town. It's not my fault I have an accent and my parents moved! Then every day after, it would get worse and worse. Either because of my hair—no matter what we try, it still stays crazy and untamable—my thick English accent, petite body, obsession over books and fictional characters, my wealthy family or anything they could think of.

​Why couldn't we have just stayed in London? At least I had friends there, although I knew I could only count on one. And I guess you could say I was happy there. A painful memory flashes through my mind of the day I had to tell my best and only real friend, Delilah Song, that I was moving halfway across the world. It was heartbreaking to see her dark green eyes well up with tears. She and I had been friends for as long as we could remember. After a few weeks of talking every now and then, we stopped talking and I've been left to live life friendless. It's not that I've never tried to make friends, it's more that I can't. Except... I shake my head at the thought. My heart clenches at the sad memory.

​There are a million words circling through my head, making everything a blur. Their taunts from earlier are circling the most. No one will care if I disappear. To them I'm Bramble Elliot, the freak with rich parents, the loser with an accent. Why do I even try living with people who don't care about me? I bet no one would even notice I'm gone. No. I know no one would, except for the bullies who make destroying my life their job.

​With that on my mind, I walk to my desk and write a short note, sticking it to my door. Then, I walk into my personal black themed bathroom and lock the door; although no one should be home until approximately 9:45 and I made it clear to the servants that I don't want them in my room or picking up after me. I hate having servants and having people waiting on me. I have roughly five hours and 20 minutes until my parents get home. I look into my full-length mirror behind the door and what I see disgusts me. I see an ugly, somewhat fat girl with long, frizzy brown hair, puffy blue-grey eyes with a hint of green and an ugly face with freckles staring back at me. Why must I look like this? Yeah, people say I'm pretty—usually just my family and servants—but really? I'm disgusted with myself!

​With pure hatred of myself on my mind, I cross over to the shower and grab my black razor off the shelf in the shower. After picking it up, I walk over to the sink and turn the water to full blast on cold.

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