Death.

The word shook your self, and yet settled so perfectly beneath the skin.

Seventeen and living with your father in a small three bedroom house, you were not happy. Not because of your living arrangements, you couldn't make it on your own even if you tried. But that was just another thing wrong with you, wasn't it?

The real reason of your sorrow was many a things. The first thing that really rocked you and sent you down this path was your parent's divorce. You knew it was coming, ever since you were little. On some nights, the small child, you would peer into your parent's bedroom, listening to them yelling at each other about things that you thought were stupid, or otherwise didn't make sense to you because of your age. Other times, day or night, you would sit in your room, listening to their voices, hardly able to block them out. You were always worried, even from such a small age, that your parents might actually become violent and hit each other. You got older and realized they wouldn't physically harm each other, and that was somewhat reassuring. But you still listened to their useless fights. They didn't seem to matter to you, but then you found out: you were an accident baby.

This shocked you, and then you began to realize that all their fighting was because of you. Your parents were married when your mother was six months pregnant with you, and even your father admitted it wasn't expected. So. . .they got married because of you. They didn't belong together. They didn't get along because of you. They fought and yelled because of you. It was always you.

Then, the divorce. You were fourteen. Monday and Tuesday at dad's, Wednesday and Thursday at mom's, and Friday-Sunday alternates. You fought hard with your mother, and she fought back. Always, she would get so upset about useless things. She even started hitting you when all you requested was to call your father. You could do nothing, for fear she would manipulate more people and get full custody over you.

Your father was your protection. He and you laughed about your mom and her lazy fat-ass boyfriend who thinks he knows it all, but really knows nothing. He just sits on his butt all day and watches TV, hates gays and is a racist, and hates all your friends no matter who they are, and especially hates your father. But all that was forgotten when you were with your father. He was so nice and kind. He would only hurt a fly. Seriously, he'll catch bugs and release them outside. One time, you couldn't even close the kitchen window all the way because there was a spider nest there. But this contradicts what your father does, and did. He used to fight in the air force, and now works for the state as an electrician (does all the wiring in the government buildings and such) and is a wrestling coach at a high school that is the undefeated champion in that sport. He works out quite a lot, and can easily whoop some ass. But he'll only do it in self defense. He's not a violent character.

Naturally, like the many good things you once had, this only lasted for a year. You let your grades drop. You were being bullied in school, and since the divorce nothing seemed worth doing. Grades matter to your father like life, and once they dropped he disowned you, uttering every cuss word in the dictionary at you and targeting you personally. He didn't ignore you when they were up, but he never let it go. So you let them fall. So far it has never happened, bu whenever he yells at you for. . .well, just being you, you always fear he will strike.

But, your parents aside, other things harmed you. Things like the only time you ever gave your whole heart to a boy, finally willing to open up after your parent's split and parent's abuse. But, of course, all his promises of happiness led to nothing but betrayal. He threw you to the curb like trash, suddenly not caring about you at all, when before he worshiped you like a goddess. This tore you apart inside, and was the moment you decided to permanently guard your heart.

But of course, pain seeped through. You began to find everything wrong with your life. Every little thing made you upset and made you feel like you didn't deserve anything.

Not even life.

But still, you could never do it. You were so tired of living, but you were so afraid of dying. Why did half of you want to stay behind? Was it because your mom was stupid enough to only bind your human rights to the divorce contract until you were seventeen, hence you now living full time with your dad? Was it the friends you had kept all throughout high school, as happy now in senior year to be around you as in freshman year, when you first met? Or was it that you just didn't want to leave? You didn't know.

All you knew at this point was that you sat cross-legged on your bed, light on and door locked. Your dad and the other coaches had left yesterday morning, away on a two week wrestling trip with his team - the championships - so you had the house to yourself, save for your three dogs. But still, you locked your door out of habit.

You didn't want to die, but you couldn't bottle up this pain. So. . .you vented. The only way you really knew how, and the only way that worked for you. Oh, you had tried therapy. You had tried the writing poetry and drawing, but nothing worked. Not even talking to your best friend, (bestfriend'sname), worked. Only the blade.

You had used scissors at one point, but that never cut deep enough. So, you took apart a razor and got the blades out. Six. You had six scars on your wrist. Half healed to marks, and half still with scabs. Never cutting over the vein, of course. That might land you in the hospital, and you weren't willing to take that risk. No one knew you cut, and you weren't about to let everyone find out. It had been getting chillier in the October month, and you had always worn the same baggy coat and beanie. No one questioned it, and you were thankful. Though, they never really had a reason to. Yes, sometimes you would drift off and look sad, but as soon as someone asked you what was wrong, you smiled and said nothing, pretending to be back from a trance.

"I was just thinking," you would say. 'Thinking about my terrible existence.'

And that's just what you were thinking about now, sitting on your bed. You held the blade between your middle finger and thumb. You wrist was exposed, and you watched as the blade was drawn towards a fresh, uncut spot. You pressed down slowly, not feeling anything. But then you dragged. You slowly pulled the blade across, and bit your lip.

Skin was so fragile, so easily penetrable. It almost made you shiver how vulnerable you were.

You watched as the blood slowly pooled around the blade before you took the weapon away. You tucked it back into your old glasses case from elementary school, back when you needed reading glasses. Now of course, your eyes were a perfect twenty-twenty. So you didn't need the glasses. But the case you needed, to hide the tool. In it was another half blade that hadn't come off the razor quite so easily, and small scissors - not the safety kind. You shoved the box back under your pillow as you watched the blood grow on your wrist. It started to form drips, and dripped onto your jeans. But it was a small spot, and was gone as soon as it hit the material.

Looking from you jeans to your clock, you saw the time - 7:27AM. Time for you to walk to school. You quickly wiped the rest of the blood off and bandaged your wrist tightly, hiding it in your over sized sleeve. You slung your black jansport backpack around your shoulders, and headed out the door, locking it on your way out.

Time to put on your brave face.