My First story. Don't like don't read. No flame. Constructive criticism.

When I first read 13 Reasons Why, I sympathized with Skye's character. We connected. This is just my take on the story when applying real life experience. It can get.. slightly graphic? So Trigger warning for self harm.

I suppose I'm meant to always be alone

But you bring this upon yourself. You smile and say that you are fine and hope for someone to notice that you aren't. You ride a bus by yourself at night with no destination, and hope that someone will show you which way to go. You hope for things but then push them away when they get too good-because you are scared to be happy.
It's been so long since you've been truly happy. Your life is not hard compared to so many others in this terrible world. Your homework is not hard but your grades have dropped. The littlest tasks fill you with anxiety. It is so easy for everyone else, so why can't you handle it? You are so weak.

"Stupid… lazy… worthless… waste of space" I whisper to myself.

These must be the reasons- why you are an outcast. Why everyone leaves.

I sit on the bus with my legs propped up on the seat in front of me. My arms folded over my legs with my head gently resting on them.

Like most nights- I am the only person riding. Everyone else has places they are welcomed and people waiting for them.

I am debating trying to take a nap since I feel sleepy. God knows I won't be able to sleep once I get home.

I just close my eyes when the bus jerks to a stop and someone gets on. I hear fast paced footsteps thumping their way toward me. The person sighs as they sit down and their bag falls over- scattering their belongings on the seat.
Hmm..very noisy
I barely open my eyes and peek through the brown wisps of my hair to see a boy about my age sitting in the seat in front of me, his head rising a few inches above the top of the seat. After a few seconds I realize that it is Clay Jensen from school.

I guess he doesn't notice I'm here. I don't blame him… Should I say something? If I say hello, it's going to end up being just another shallow conversation. On the other hand, I suppose I don't have much to lose from talking to him.

See, Clay had a crush on me in middle school. Everyone did. I was queen bee and had the world at my feet. I had the greatest friend anyone could ask for. We were soulmates- the sort of relationship that exists only once in a lifetime. It seems dramatic to say that about a friend, but I told her everything. I gave my heart to her and loved her more than my own parents.

Then she left. Once we hit high school, she found different people to be friends with. I guess that's how life is. But once she was gone, I didn't know who to be or where to be. Everyone 'loved me' but no one liked me. Everyone already had a place they belonged and no one is willing to let me in. But what do you do when you're safe-haven leaves?

Many boys had a crush on me, but that just made it harder to be friends with girls. Over time I became desperate for companionship. I wanted someone to take my loneliness away, but the only people who payed me the time of day were boys who only liked me for how I looked. I cut my hair short because boys think it is pretty when long-hoping that maybe they would just stop liking me.

I can't tell anyone about my loneliness because they would laugh at me. How hard is it to make a friend?

Each day that went past I became more and more alone. Some teachers grew weary of my transformation, but a chirpy smile and "I'm fine" can fool anyone-because they want to believe that you are. They say they want to help, but in reality it is just a hindrance.

I liked Clay. He liked me too. But if he knew the person I really was, I doubt he would have ever had a crush on me.

I open my mouth to say something but no words come out.
I'm so stupid. I can't even say one word.

My eyes start to water. I wipe them with the backs of my hands. As my anxiety grows stronger, I lean up, swallow my spit, and my hands clench my arms. Underneath my bulky grey sweatshirt I can feel my purple painted finger nails digging into my skin. The pain gives me a dash of courage.

"Miss your stop Clay?"
I speak his name louder than I meant to.

He jumps in his seat then makes eye contact with me through the reflection from the ugly dark- tinted windows. He turns his body toward me and takes out his headphones from his ear.

I guess I interrupted him. He probably thinks I'm annoying
I give a slight smile.
It's been a while since I've smiled. I hope I'm doing it right. Wouldn't want I'm to think I'm weirder then he already does

He gives me a half-smile. "Hey Skye"

Well at least he remembers me.

"Miss your house? He'll stop if you ask him to." More words than I have spoken to him in a long time. I always liked talking to him, but tonight it just feels more effort than it's worth.

He shakes his head at me, but doesn't give any further explanation.

Okay I guess it's not any of my business.

The bus pulls up to a curb and slows to a stop.
"Anyone?" the driver yells back to us.

Clay turns to look at the driver. I stare at the back of Clays head and frown, expecting him to leave.

He's so beautiful. But it's not like he would love you. You had your chance. It's too selfish of you to change your mind now. Anyway, he is in love with the Pretty Dead Girl. I wonder how he would feel if I were dead? Everyone loves you more when you are dead than when you are alive. But Hannah is different than me. She is pretty and thin with clear skin and a great personality. People only care when it is a pretty girl who dies- ugly people be damned.

The driver, I think his name is Frank, takes our silence as a affirmative that neither of us is getting off.

Clay turns back to me, but I make no effort to direct my eyes somewhere else. We gaze into each other's eyes. He seems a bit uncomfortable, but I don't mind. My Mom always taught me to make eye contact when I talk to someone. If anything, she at least taught me that.

Clay awkwardly shifts in his seat
"Where are you going?"

I didn't really even know myself where I was traveling to. It was more of a decide-as-I-go sort of thing. I wonder for a second how to answer his question, and then realize that with every passing second he was becoming more and more uncomfortable. It was almost comical. I smirk-maybe it was mean to control him like this, but it was the most fun I have had in awhile. I wait for a bit, but become bored with this game.
"I'm not going anywhere" I say softly. That was the honest truth.
He frowns a bit and seems annoyed at my answer, for a minute I thought maybe he even seemed pissed off.
Look, you took a situation too far again. Just be normal for once.

The bus rolls around the corner and Clay looks out the window and starts to quickly gather his belongings into a little cradle made by his arms and one by one puts them into his bag. He not only needs to leave, but at this point seems desperate to get away from me.
Part of me wants to ask him to stay, to lay all my feelings on the line. To let go of my sadness. To weep all of the blue out of my soul and share the burden with him.

But that's not realistic. If he saw my scars, he wouldn't know how to handle it. I'm not sure I can take that sort of rejection.

I shove my feelings into the back of my mind where they belong. "See you tomorrow"
"See you later" he says. Then as the bus pulls to a stop, hestands from his seat and slowly makes his way up the aisle.
I hope that he turns around but he doesn't.
I hear him say his thanks to the driver and the creak of the doors swinging closed.
Im so tired and I lost track of what stop the bus is at. It would be weird if I got off here though. I close my eyes again and lean my head against the coolness of the window.

Feelings feelings feelings..Go away.

My hand reaches into the front pocket of my grey sweatpants. The edges of my finger touch that familiar little silver object. I grasp it in between the top of my pointer finger and the bottom of my middle finger-I pull it out of my pocket and swirl the object between my fingers for a little while. I place it to my lower wrist and debate whether I should make the next move.
Talking to Clay made me happy. But now all I feel is the crushing weight of his absence. Im not sure how I feel tonight, but whatever it is, it makes me uncomfortable.
I press the blade harder and slowly drag it horizontally across my a single moment, I feel at peace and I open my eyes to see. The blood doesn't bleed at first.
Slowly, but surely, the cut starts turning crimson and I squeeze the area around the cut to make the blood come out more. A bead of blood forms, and that's my cue to do it again. After a few times I decide that I feel emotionally numb enough to stop. I slide the razor back in my pocket and stare at the results of my self-hatred. The fresh blood trickles down my arm over the old scars. Some are white and barely visible, while others are a dark color from itchy scabs. My favorite are the ones from a few days ago that turn a bright cherry red.

I pull my sleeve back up over my arm. It will smudge and dirty my outfit, but I can deal with that later.
I get off the bus at the first stop where something outside looks familiar, and then I walk my way home.
And as much as I hate admitting it, I spend the rest of the night thinking about Clay Jensen.

I will be uploading a second chapter.