Mhkay. New story! Gonna try to keep up with this one! :D
Warnings: Depression, Self Harm, Sexual Material, Adult Content
Prologue
It wasn't the way he looked. Or even the way he talked. It wasn't what he did, or how he did it. No matter how many times I think about what it was, what made me love him, I just can't put my finger on it. I remember my grandmother telling me a story when I was little. It was about a princess who fell in love with the towns fool. The fool wasn't the best looking, the smartest, or the kindest. But there was something about him, that made the princess love him. I suppose he's just my own fool. Except in no way, am I a princess.
When I was 14, I was officially diagnosed with Chronic Depression, which basically just means you're depressed constantly. The doctors said it was because of my mothers death. She passed away on my thirteenth birthday; literally. I'm not sure if I would blame it entirely on that though. I mean yeah, I loved her and her death killed a part of me on the inside, but the fact that my own uncle sexually abused me at her funeral didn't really help. Yep. Sexual Abuse.
Eventually my dad saw the bruises, put the pieces together, and told the "Po Po" about my uncle. In fact, it turns out my uncle has been responsible for molesting 8 other children in the state of Washington alone. He was a pretty messed up guy. I once heard that child molesters, were most likely touched themselves growing up. So, yeah, even though my uncle was a fucked up man, I still felt bad for him. No one deserves this kind of life.
I eventually led to cutting, and that led to eating disorders, and that led to multiple suicide attempts. I didn't necessarily want to die, but I didn't really want to live either. Complicated, right? My dad took me out of school when I was 16, and sent me to live at a rehabilitation center called Crawford. It was for the mentally ill and depressed. Perfect. Put a depressed person around a bunch of other depressed and crazy people.
After a year the doctors thought I was better, or at least well enough to go back home. It was fine the first few days, but school was a nightmare. Disappear for a year and people are bound to wonder where you went.
I didn't really have friends before I went to Crawford, let alone after. I spent most days only talking to my dad, but sometimes I'd go to the library after school and have short, but somewhat pleasant conversations with the Librarian. Her name was Marian; Marian the Librarian, ironic right? She was at the ripe age of 45, and was possibly the only person I'd call a friend, besides my dad. She understood me. She didn't know about my past, or about Crawford, but she also never asked. Unlike everyone else. I felt as though I've known her forever, and we were old friends of sorts.
Even though my life wasn't as bad as it used to be, it wasn't great. The urge of self harm still called to me, and even though I did my best to ignore it, there were days I just couldn't. My dad never found out. How could I tell him? When he thought of far I've come.
Senior year came, and I was dealing the best I could.
Then there came the fool...