Story cover for The Life of Deja by KiaaMyzsane
The Life of Deja
  • WpView
    Reads 209
  • WpVote
    Votes 14
  • WpPart
    Parts 4
  • WpHistory
    Time <5 mins
  • WpView
    Reads 209
  • WpVote
    Votes 14
  • WpPart
    Parts 4
  • WpHistory
    Time <5 mins
Ongoing, First published Dec 14, 2019
I am Deja Robinson . I am 21 with a beautiful baby girl . I live on my own . I grew up in & out of foster homes . My parents died in a horrible accident when I was younger . Growing up without a parent is hard . Imagine having to live without one & trying to be one .
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The Rich Emo: Ouran High School Host Club by graciegreat
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Loneliness. Depression. Broken. Scared. Devastated. Hopeless. Mournful. Disheartening. Bleak. Joyless. Somber. I have no one. Depression and Loneliness are the only things I feel. My family tries to make me happy, but I just put on a fake smile and cry about it in my room. They act like everything is alright, but everything is not. They KNOW I was devastated about Mom's murder. They KNOW I was heartbroken about Dad's sickness that eventually killed him. That's all I've thought about. Devastation and heartbroken. Just because of those two things. Never in my life I have been this devastating. Dayton, Hayden, Angel, or Monica know how to make me truly happy. Not even my own siblings know how to make me show a real smile. Suicide is all I can think about day to day and I've almost died because of that. DEPRESSION IS A REAL THING. NO ONE KNOWS HOW I FEEL EVERYDAY. NO ONE CAN JUDGE OTHERS ABOUT DEPRESSION OR EVEN MAKE JOKES ABOUT IT BECAUSE ITS A REAL THING. DEPRESSION HAS KILLED PEOPLE. EVERYONE IN MY LIFE JUDGES ME JUST BECAUSE I DON'T SMILE, LAUGH, HUG, OR DO ANYTHING NORMAL PEOPLE DO. I CUT MYSELF, I CRY, I YELL, I VENT, I PUSH PEOPLE OUT OF MY LIFE. Those are the things people are worried about me. "Go kill yourself and join your parents in hell." They say and I just shrug it off and find a private place to hide and cry it out. "I CAN'T DEAL WITH LIFE ANYMORE!!!!" I say and I use my sharp nails and cut myself then cry some more. A gun is buried within my arm for defense from my dad, but I use it in case I am tired of society. Then that's when I met the Host Club. They saw my sadness and made me a part of it to repay my debt for accidentally breaking a vase. I am now a Host for men to flatter them, but how can normal guys want me to be a Host when I wear lip earrings, eyeliner, chains, and have a gun in my arm? I'm the definition of Hell. Then he made me smile again, something that I thought I would never get back. Happiness.
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Sup, I'm Rebecca or Becca but everyone always calls me Kid or Dude. I'm 16 turning 17 pretty soon. I don't have any parents but I have a bunch of siblings. We're not related by blood. You see I'm in a Gang. Well its not really a gang we don't kill people or beat the shit out of people. There's also this rival gang that I've learned to be afraid of. From what I've heard they kill you the second they spot you. If you're lucky that is. Oh yea and there's a whole shit ton of things wrong with me. So if you care to find out more I guess read this.