(A/N) Every chapter will be a different character in their P.O.V. I don't know whether a story like this has already been written, but this is all original content from my weird little head :p If you are struggling through any of the topics raise, for Apple products there is an app like the one mentioned in this story called TalkLife. It can really help and is free :) And I am now on Instagram so if any of you kind enough to follow me I am phsycotic_sandwich. Thanks for reading :)
Karkat
You have logged onto Talk! How are you feeling, CarcinoGeneticist? Make a post:
My fingers tremble as I contemplate connecting my fingers with the keys of my keyboard. Why did I make this stupid account in the first place? It wasn't like anyone was going to care enough to talk to me in the first place. Who would waste their time on an idiotic life form like myself?
CarcinoGeneticist: HEY. I'M A 15 YEAR OLD GUY WITH ANGER ISSUES AND AN ABUSIVE DAD. I GUESS IM ANOREXIC AND I SELF HARM TO DEAL WITH EVERYTHING THAT'S FUCKING GOING ON.
I can't decide what else to put, so I click the 'Done' button and relax against my bed. Staring up at my ceiling, I realise how fucking crap this app makes me feel. I downloaded it to maybe get some support in the situation I was in. But it's just made me realise how fucked up my life is. It's just a stupid app where people bitch about their problems and others going through the same thing comment advice. There's an online internet version, similar to Pesterchum , but I'll probably check that out later.
I look back at my IPod and see my post in a long row with all the others. I scroll through some posts and see ones about self harm, bad relationships and mental health problems. I sigh, locking my IPod and laying back down in bed.
My real name is Karkat Vantas and all my life I've lived in this shitty flat belonging to my dad- Jack. I've never known about my mother and a part of me doesn't really care. Jack has never liked me, hated me since birth. Whenever he comes home he's usually drunk. He beats me, calling me horrible names.
"FAG!"
"WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!"
"LITTLE CUNT!"
I remember when I was 8 and I 'fell down the stairs'. I had an arm broken in two places because of that asshole. For some reason, the only way to calm myself was to inflict the pain I felt inside onto myself. With the help of my Dad's old razor blades, I've got scars all over my arms and legs. He hardly feeds me, and when I do get the chance of food it's only in tiny portions like a packet of chips, or a soda. It's what I choose anyway. I have to be slim, or it'll just give Dad another reason to hit me.
As I breathe in, I feel my ribs poking at my black school sweatshirt. I run my fingers along my stomach, feeling the sharp bones of my ribcage poking them. Holy shit, one day I'll be as skeletal as…well a fucking skeleton! But a part of me really doesn't care.
My IPod pings and the screen lights up.
Wow
Someone actually commented on my post
Someone wants to help me
