You punch me.
You hit me.
You laugh at me.
You call me a bitch.
You say i'm a slut .
You tell everyone i'm fat.
You smile when I cry.
And yet, I can see it in your face.
You don't want to hit me.
You don't want to punch me.
You don't want to laugh at me.
You don't want to say I'm a slut.
You don't want to tell people I'm fat.
You may smile when I cry, but you look like you want to cry too.
But maybe i'm just imagining things.
Isn't that right,
bully?
I like inflicting pain. Not on others but on myself. Some people would call me depressed but I'm not. If anything the pain makes me happy.
I started "self harming" at the mere age of nine. Or at least, that's what she called it. My therapist, I mean. She ended up giving me a life time supply of antidepressants and some shitty advice.
I'm now eighteen, rotting in jail, and awaiting my death sentence.
This is my story and if I'm quite honest, you don't want to hear it.
+++
awards:
➵ Winner, Short Story Category, "Summer Book Awards" @Capybara100
➵ Overall Winner, "Summer Book Awards" @Capybara100
status:
➵ started - 19/08/17
➵ finished- 07/11/18
note:
➵ Please don't copy me. I don't appreciate it and will block you and report you. No writer likes to be copied and neither do readers. Readers want something which is unique and original.