Bad Boy With Scars

Chapter Nineteen: The Note

Connor's P.O.V.

Chelsea ran out so fast. It made me feel awful for many reasons. I felt like I was pressuring her into something she might not have wanted to do. In all reality though, I'm not sure if I even wanted to either. There was something about Chelsea that made my heart flutter, but there was another part of her that made me feel weird. I'm not sure what it was, but it wasn't right.

Dustin had come into my room about an hour after Chelsea left. He was smirking at me the entire time he spoke, which was something about how I needed to get my shit together. I don't know.

"Dustin, I have a question?" I asked quietly.

"Sure bro, what's up?" He sat next to me on my bed.

"Chelsea and I almost-" I started but was cut off by fits of laughter coming from him.

"I know, Connor. Brandon and Nicola wouldn't shut up about it." He laughed wildly.

My heart stopped for a second as I realized that my parents probably knew too. Fuck. They knew Chelsea and I almost...frickle frackled...Dear Lord...

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"...you're nothing but a worthless piece of shit! You better be out of this house by tomorrow morning and never come back or I swear I'll kill you!" My father yelled at me.

I ran up to my bedroom and locked my door, my breathing was caught in the back of my throat.

What I did to piss him off? No clue. Did I believe everything he said? Of course.

It hurt me to know that my own father, the man who helped bring me into this world, has the balls to say shit like that to my face. He hasn't done that in so long, but with everything that's been happening, that was the last thing I needed.

After the whole Chelsea incident, everything spiraled out of control. Brandon told everyone that Chelsea and I had sex and that she was most likely to get pregnant soon.

Everyone was comforting her, trying to help her through this 'tough' time even when she knew she didn't need it. But she hadn't felt important in a while so I didn't blame her for wanting the attention, despite that fact it wasn't like her at all.

As for me, everyone hated me more than before if that was possible. They called me a man whore, a slut, an emo shit, anything that is insensitive that could hurt you, let's just say it's not fun being told that.

Sam had even told everyone about a couple months ago, which felt like forever ago, when I did things to Chelsea. I wasn't proud of them, I really wasn't.

I took away her innocence and she forgave me. That's what hurt the most. I hurt her so much and I probably made her feel vulnerable and worthless in so many moments, and she forgave me. Why? I didn't deserve that. She should be with Sam, in a happy relationship. But I had to ruin it. I'm nothing but a failure.

I let every memory of the last few months play back into my head and it made me sick. I wanted to end the memories, but there was only one way out. One way to end it all. Looking at it now, I think it'll be worth it.

I took a deep shaky breath before I got up and went into my closet. There was a mirror that I caught my reflection on my way over. I looked into it and immediately started crying.

Worthless.

Failure.

Fat.

Ugly.

Whore.

Emo.

All these words ran into my head as I studied myself. Before I could look away, my hand was bleeding. It took me a second to realize it, but I punched the mirror. It didn't phase me though. It wouldn't be needed in this room much longer.

I looked around my closet, trying to forget the pain in my hand, until I came upon what I was looking for. I had the rope in there since Freshman year. I knew it would come in handy eventually.

I grabbed it and closed my door. I grabbed the nearest stool and stood up on it. I looked for a place that would hold me. I sighed with relief as I found a hook lying on the ground. Why the hell was everything so in reach? It was like this was my fate. I believe that this is my fate.

I shoved the hook into my ceiling and tied the rope firmly around it. I tied a knot in the rope the best I could with shaky hands. I made a perfect noose and sighed to myself. Right as I was about to put the noose around my neck, it hit me; I need to write a note.

I quickly stepped down and stumbled over to my desk where I took out a pencil and a piece of paper, writing down the last known existence of me, Connor Franta.