Kenneth McCormick. The name does have a pleasant rig to it. It's the kind of name you love to say, the kind of name that just rolls off your tongue and floats in the air. You would say it for no reason other than to feel your tongue and lips make every single syllable. It has a positive feeling to it, as does the chap with the wild dark blonde hair and the vibrant dark blue eyes. When you met him, you would never know the angst-ridden history of child abuse, poverty, and multiple deaths.
The same could not be said for me. Phillip Pirrip. It's a god awful name, isn't it? I suppose, when you look at it, Pip is much more pleasant. Pip. It sounds like a name a fragile old woman would give her cocker spaniel, doesn't it? I look at myself in the mirror, and I do not see the handsome young gentleman my parents described so much before. Where I should see beautiful locks of strawberry blonde hair, I see horribly ugly and greasy strands. Where I should see bright baby blue eyes, I see dull, melancholic eyes that are trying to hard to brighten. I see nothing but dreadful imperfection.
I wonder how Kenneth deals with his pain. Does he swallow it? Hold it in, slowly building it up until he chokes? Or does he turn to other things, like drugs or alcohol? my theory is that he finds comfort in that Kyle. Yes, that must be it. I certainly see why. Kyle is an empathetic, understanding young gentleman who could help anyone. Except me, I suppose. But, in all honesty, who would help me? I'm nothing but a walking pile of awfulness. GOD I can't even describe myself right!
I no longer wish I had a person like Kyle or Kenneth. I'm threw with that. I'm sick of wanting. When my parents died, I wanted them to come back. It never happened. When my sister started drinking, I wanted her to stop. It never happened. When she and the other children hit me, I wanted them to stop. Did it ever happen? NO!!! I'm tired of disappointment. I'm sick of trying.
I roll up my sleeves, seeing the purple lines under my pale skin. I grab the shard of glass out of my trouser pocket. Its from my sisters vase. I broke it a week ago. She was really mad and smacked me, but I was too used to it to care. I place the shard on a throbbing vein and race it across back and forth. Underneath, crimson blood flows from the self-inflicted wound and trickles down my arm. I lick it, feeling the hot, iron abundant fluid go down my throat. I make several on each wrist and go to bed. The only thing I want now is to bleed to death in my sleep. But when I open my eyes in the morning I will realize that was pointless too.