{ UNEDITED } When I was ten years old, I fell from a tree. My bloody hands and scraped knees were enough proof for my father to know that I was hurting. He helped me clean up the small amount of blood, and even bandaged my wounds. He told me that I would feel better in the morning, which for the most part I had. At ten years old, I tried to take my own life because my internal wounds were not enough proof for my father to know that I was hurting. He did not help me clean up the internal mess, or bandage the mental wounds that I and others have created.

{ AVAILABLE ON BN.COM } He aims. He shoots. He scores. The shot worth ten thousand bucks. A grin spread clear across my face, the actions all thought as I played them out gun in hand. This quickly became something I loved to do a few months back, it helped to pass the time of the world around me. ... Yet, here I am. Hunter Andrew Michaels. Nineteen years old, blonde hair and green eyes. I stand five foot three inches tall, and I go to college at Portland University. I watched my friend, and my best friend, both die right in front of me. I'm still standing, and I am becoming better.