Forgiven

Time to get up, bud, the familiar voice, Bullfrog s voice, breaks through my peaceful slumber. Slowly, I lift my weary head and rub my eyes. Looking around, I realize I've fallen asleep at the computer again. I scoot closer to the screen and read the last line I wrote. I hate myself.
There s a rapid knocking at my door and I groggily say, I m up, Bullfrog. Just as I hear the door knob begin to twist, I quickly shut off my computer. Bullfrog steps in and searches the room for me. After locating me at my desk, slightly behind the door, he stumbles to my bed.
Oh, great, I think as I swivel my chair towards him. I peer at his face and wonder where my jade green eyes came from. Listen, Eli, I don t want you to look for Cla- her. You ve gotten so much better the past month. CeCe and I are very proud of you and we don t want you to become depressed again. Don t ask Adam about her, nothing. If she s in a class of yours, don t look at her, don t talk to her. I know you ll want to, but it s not good for you, she s not good for you. I watch him slowly look up from his sweating hands with this pitiful, pleading look. I don t know what to say, so I just nod like an idiot.
Bullfrog gives me a long, hard look, then leaves the room so I can prepare for school. I take off my pants and the angry red cuts stare back at me. Of course, my mom and dad know about my self mutilation, to a point. That s what really worries them. I used to cut my wrists, but they saw the scars very easily and tried to get me help. I ve moved on to cutting my legs, stomach, anything not visible. I pull up my dark jeans and hide my deep red slash marks. They re too ugly to look at any longer. I fix my belt and begin to reach for my Dead Hand shirt. I begin to think of her and the incident. She isn t just ayone. She s Clare Edwards. She is my love, but I hurt her. I hurt my Clare-Bear.
My head starts spinning as I think of her. Her blue eyes, her smile, her auburn hair, the curliness of her hair, her voice, her angelic laugh, her complexion, her stubbornness, her humor, her gorgeous blush, her fingers, her arms, her style, her ass, her boobs, her. . . everything. She is perfect. And I m just the low life, jack-ass who hurt her.
I sit down with my Dead Hand shirt still in hand. Fucking idiot! I mumble as I shake my head.