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I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.
Tears, hot and blinding, ran down my face as I crouched in the toilet cubicle and vomited up my lunch. I wasn't bulimic, far from it, if it wasn't for a metabolism with the speed of an express train, I'd be fat, it was simply a reaction to ... well, to everything.
The unending months of torment, of insults, of slurs on my few relationships, and more recently, the vicious beatings with fists and feet and sticks and lumps of concrete.
I'd had enough. When push came to shove, that really was all there was to it; I'd had enough.
It would never stop, and I couldn't change what I was, so... there was only one way out, as far I could see. The school could do nothing, had done nothing virtually from the start, until it was too late; it had gone too far. It was unstoppable.
I was thin now, almost skeletal, twitchy and nervous. The bright laugh that had attracted friends like bees to flowers had changed to a sharp, high, brittle sound that disturbed people because it spoke of a mind under pressure that they could not comprehend. Those same friends had fled when the jeering had become physical, after the few that had stayed to help had ended up hospitalised.
Oh, I had been nonchalant at first, brushed off the insults as the work of a few intolerant halfwits, but they had just kept coming.
It was like when they hit me, I could take only so much, yet they kept coming. Over and over again, kick after kick, punch after punch. Comment after comment, carefully barbed to sink deep into my mind and lodge there like a splinter, burrowing ever deeper.
I was a nervous wreck. Wouldn't leave the house unless I was forced; wouldn't leave my room. I talked to myself, no, make that argued with myself, loudly, and had only realised when Julia had pointed it out a few days ago.
I loved my sister, I really did, but her way of trying to make things better for me was to throw spiteful insults back at the bullies, which simply made it worse, and being too cheerful, too bossy, trying to, in her own way, "bully" me out of the state I was in. And, surprise, surprise, it didn't work.
Things could only get worse, I knew that.
No matter how bad things got, they could always get worse. There was no longer an "up" for me, just varying levels of down; an inky, overwhelming depression, full of headaches and stomach-aches. Fevers and vomiting, tears and screams. Running into walls deliberately because I was too scared to cut and bring about more oppression.
What life was this?
One that I no longer wanted.
Who would want a life where the only way to go was further into the dark?
Not me. Not anymore.
I wiped my tears away with a shaking hand, then, with a shuddering, choking sound, took out my father's gun from my schoolbag.
--
A muted bang made several people turn around in the corridors and look at each other with a puzzled expression, but it was hours before someone came into the toilets, forced the door open, and found a thin, paper-white corpse lying in the midst of what had been a head.
Can anyone tell angst is my forte?
I have fourteen out of these twenty chapters written and have finished the first chapter of my new KaiMax fic ... I feel so productive!
On a sidetrack - what's with the new account layout?? (cries)
Review?
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