I don't know when I stopped caring about life, but I did. I do know why though; there was nothing in my life to care about. I was consantly bullied at school and home, and nobody cared about me. Just the ugly girl with good grades and no friends.
People often teased me for my name, Maximum Ride. They would always make sick jokes that didn't make sense most of the time.
My name is Maximum Ride, I'm sixteen, I'm not tall, but not short, and I think I'm fairly smart. I used to be proud of all that, then, after my mom Valencia died, my father Jeb started drinking and made me realize what I really am; a good-for-nothing waste of space.
My father, how I loathe to call him that, would beat me multiple times a day. If I resisted, he only beat me more. I would try to cover up the injuries, but sometimes the makeup just wasn't enough, and people at school saw them. I would get taunted by the kids about them, and my teachers saw everything, but they didn't care.
Sometimes I would come home from school with new bruises or cuts, and my dad beat me harder when he saw them. He would call me a failure, I knew that already though, I've known that ever since my mom died when I was ten. Six years of constant torture. One winter day, I had a thought, why am I still alive? There is no purpose to my life, none at all.
So it was decided, and that was the day that I, Maximum Ride, killed myself.
Please tell me if I did good or not. I would really appreciate it.