Story cover for Patching Up by EvanCadwell
Patching Up
  • Reads 1,679
  • Votes 42
  • Parts 7
  • Time 1h 30m
  • Reads 1,679
  • Votes 42
  • Parts 7
  • Time 1h 30m
Ongoing, First published Mar 31, 2013
I am Logan Bradenton. 

Like most adolescents, I am going through one of the worst phases of life. I am an outcast, and I am also a bit depressed if I could even call it that. The angst and insecurity, along with the problems that keep piling up like a stack of cards are beginning to get to me. A bit more and I might snap. That terrifies me. 

There are times I long for that easy way out, times when I think about the many ways I can escape this miserable excuse of a life. Most of the time the pain is too excruciating, and I can barely hang on. It is exhausting to keep trying. I don't think I have the strength to keep fighting. I think I may even be, for the slightest bit, suicidal. It is only a matter of patching up before I am inflicted with serious damage.  

(Not final description thing crap ^ still working on it)  Started writing: April 2013
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!!Trigger warning: suicide, Implied/Referenced Self Harm!! Warnings before sections. . This book is currently discontinued, if I find motivation to finish it it is not in the foreseeable future. . "Trust me." His voice was soft and calming, the way that a good father could be assumed to sound. "This isn't what you want, it never has been and it never will be. Confusion is difficult to work through, but if you just let me help you, I can show you that it can be worked through." He rolled up his sleeve, showing several white streaks across his skin. The other was shocked. "N-no, I'm not good for anything, I'm nothing there's nothing for me." He shook his head many times, holding it in his hands after a bit. "No." "Can I touch you?" The boy who was trying to help this poor soul had approached a few paces. His voice was now quieter, more soft, and still caring. The boy at the bridge took a moment to think, then nodded his approval. The savior gently took the boy's hands delicately in his own and gently pulled the boy back. Well, less of a pull and more of a gentle suggestion. It worked and the boy stumbled down off of the edge. The boy started to cry. How could he be so weak that a boy, the same age as him, who seemed to have the same ideas and hatred toward himself as he, could keep him from stepping off? The other simply gently led him to his vehicle and took out a water bottle out of the backseat. The boy took it and looked at it suspiciously. "It's untampered, look, it's still sealed." Upon seeing this, the boy opened it and took a few sips of water. "Thank you. For the water." The savior smiled. "It's nothing much." He shrugged. "Have a phone? If you want I can put my number in and then you'll always be able to tell someone if you're having a pissy day." Surprisingly enough, the boy agreed. . They would both be around twenty.
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"There comes a point where you no longer care if there's a light at the end of the tunnel or not. You're just sick of the tunnel." - Who I am doesn't matter. How I got here doesn't matter. What matters now is I'm getting help, right? That's what they tell me here. They tell me that the road to recovery feels like a terrible butt fuck, but the fact that you're on the path to begin with, is all that matters. So as I sit in this circle of fuck ups, I realize just how different I am from them. I didn't attempt suicide because my mother was a crack addict who didn't want me. My father wasn't abusive. I didn't have a sibling die in a car accident. I was never really bullied either. I attempted suicide because, for the first time in years, I thought I had found something that could make me feel again... and after not feeling much at all for far too long, perhaps I went a bit overboard