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I turned fifteen five months ago today and it’s been a long day of school. Just jam packed with agony and loneliness. Hearing old women in the midst of menopause blabbering on about physics and shit. Man I hate eighth grade. There aren’t many brattier and insufferable children in this world than eight graders. Being fucked berated and having slurs and insults mumbled towards me as I waddle past the cliques that would swarm hallways, as I never really had anyone who tried go be my friend. I’d be successful for the first half, and then lose them completely. It felt like I just wasn’t a good enough person to keep someone’s interest in me for long enough. Not funny enough, not cool enough, not strong enough, not handsome enough. At the end of the day it’s just me alone, staring at my ceiling and having no one, wondering why I’m still here on this earth. I hate having to bear the thought of myself. Worthless fucker.
I turned fifteen 6 months ago when I started to realized it happened everyday. Every single day this is how it went. I’d wake up with crusted blood all over my sheets and shirt, gashes along my calves and thighs that gaged wide open, exposing my lumps of fat, nerves I severed through, and my first and second layer of skin. My blankets and bed sheets touched my open wounds and it stung like hell. But I knew this is what I deserved. Secretly, I wished that it killed me. I wished that my pathetic excuse of a life would just be over. No one knew I felt this way. They were open to think it, my black band shirts and my black skinny ripped jeans. They were open to think whatever they wanted, calling me an emo fag, poser, attention seeker. But they didn’t know I was praying that I would pass away every night.
I turned fifteen 7 months ago before I noticed my mom didn’t know how I felt. She acts like she cares. She says shit like “I love you sweetheart” and “how was your day” but I know she couldn’t give a fuck if she tried. She leaves me home alone at work and going out with her friends almost every hour of every day. She never wants to check in on me, it’s really a chore for her. And the things she says to me while she’s drunk tells me everything I need to know.
“Sometimes I wish I had a different kid. Ya know? One that wasn’t so quiet. Where mama’s old Johnnie ?”
I knew she was drunk because she slurred her words, walking into my room at 2 or 3 AM just to tell me random shit like that. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t know the truth because she doesn’t care and she never has. Maybe when I was little. Maybe when I was always smiling, maybe when I played with toy trucks and played with other kids, maybe when I played outside and did sports, maybe when I was a normal kid. But ever since my dad passed away everything had been different. My mom, my brother, my sister, me. It’s different now.
I turned fifteen eight months ago when I had finally learned it was my time to go. The reason why I did it is because I knew that no one would find out for a long time. I did it because I knew no one would care. I did it because I knew it would be one less burden. So I did it.
It was all a blur really, but I grabbed my blade and sliced wimpy cuts all along my legs and arms, sobbing too hard to focus my energy on one thing. Pain racked through my body knowing how worthless I am. How I ruin everything. How no one is there for me. So I said fuck it. I grabbed the melatonin. I took the whole thing. I sit there sobbing as loud as my voice would let me and I screamed. I screamed to be released from the hold of this painful fucking world. The world I was never supposed to be in. The world that deems me unworthy. The world that bans happiness from my fucking life. As my conscious started to close and my eyes got foggy I smiled and let my life slip from my reins.
And then I woke up. Fuck.