His name was Quentin Black, and we were dangerously in love. He was the source of my happiness, and the source of my pain. But I couldn't live without him.
I was a damaged soul, filled with all sorts of sorrow and despair, but he swore to fix me. And fix me he did, for a while, until that time was cut short on numerous occasions by an unfortunate series of
events. Several people tried to interfere with his plans of helping me; Emma, Austin, and even my own mother. But in the end, it was down to me and him who were held responsible for how the story went.
So here's how the story about my last year on earth goes. Not a love story, not a horror story, but my story; my death story.
He betrayed and faked to be fully gay to possibly get in my pants. She left me for a girl she met on a trip. And to think my life was actually GOOD. Aside from my crazy bitch of a sister and mother, of course.
But then so, who could blame me for trying to commit suicide? Who could blame me for fucking trying to die?
At first all this was regret. Then she came along, in our beautiful dorm in the mental hospital.