Trigger Warning: Suicide, self-harm, and abuse

Chapter 1

The First Time

Some of her teachers couldn't fathom how a seven year old girl could be depressed enough to look them in the eyes and describe how she wanted to die. How she wanted to cut herself open, and write her name in blood. Not everyone grasped the concept that a child had the life experience to be absolutely certain that life was not an experience she yearned for.

However, no one else she knew had parents who looked at them with such resentment. Most of the time, an unwanted baby becomes a full-fledged member of the family, and the parents hold all the love in the world for their new child. Her parents were in the minority. None of the kids in her class were blamed for being the downfall of their parents' marriage or the sole reason a relationship crashed and burned. Jade was an easy scapegoat for them. Her mom and dad could point fingers at her, and they would say in total confidence, "If only you hadn't shown up, we would have had time to resolve our differences. We really needed to wait a few years, but instead, you ruined everything."

So how was a seven year old child this adamant on her urges to die? It was quite simple. Her parents instilled it in her. She was constantly beaten down with words that confirmed that she was worthless, a mistake, someone who shouldn't have been born in the first place, and most definitely shouldn't still be alive. While all the other girls in her class imagined the beautiful dresses they would wear when their Prince Charming came, Jade's mind was filled with questions about what her funeral would be like. Whether she would be buried in a new dress or one she already owned, whether people other than her parents would know the cause of her death (she was sure they would make something else up), and whether anyone would come. Maybe her parents would decide she wasn't worth a funeral and move on.

A seven year old could be depressed.

A seven year old could spiral out of control.

Jade was proof.

The first time wasn't even an attempt. She simply climbed to the roof of her house every day after school one week while her parents were working.

As she stood there, combat boot-clad feet running back and forth on the edges of the slate rooftop, she tried to talk herself out of it. She truly wasn't sure if the concept of jumping seemed more inviting or terrifying. It would be deadly but painful. After standing there for a while, vaguely remembering reading that most people changed their minds on the way down, she would always climb back down to the ground. She wasn't careful, as she didn't care enough to be careful, but she always breathed a sigh of relief when her feet touched the ground. She was secretly happy to be safe.

As she crawled into bed every night, silently hoping she wouldn't wake up, she wondered if she was supposed to tell someone. She knew her parents would just yell at her and lecture her. She knew she desperately needed help. But she didn't want to be blamed for her feelings.

She told no one.

She continued to hate herself, falling asleep almost every night with tears trickling down her pale face.