She was drowning, but WAIT there's a catch! No one was there to save her.
Whore, bitch, slut, ugly, loose, easy, skank
"SHUT UP!" I scream at nothing. I fall to the floor wrapping my arms around myself. Sobbing and shaking violently. "SHUT UP ALREADY!" I cry even harder. The rooms getting smaller and I feel like I can't breath. Like I'm underwater. I'm drowinging.
Dying. I need air. I'm choking. "Please just stop." I say barely above a whisper. Like anyone's around to hear me. I start rocking back and forth, hoping it'll ease this pain somehow. My stomach is being ripped apart by anxiety pills, and my head is spinning from the asprin. I can't feel my arms or legs. I'm going numb. My body's shutting down. I'm not physically dying, no, I'm still painfully alive. It's my soul that's dying. My soul that's being ripped apart. Being ripped from my body as a punishment. A punishment for what? Letting them beat me everyday? Letting tears escape from the big grey prison I call my eyes. I start to pull on my hair. Smiling down at the crimson red locks in my hands. Some of the blood from my wrist mixes with my hair making them a darker shade of red. I look over to the mirror and get a full view of myself. I look pathetic. Wearing black shorts and a tanktop. My makeup's smudged and my fingers are stained black from my eyeliner. I wipe away the black tears that form at the corner of my eyes.
The walls. Their closing in on me. I swear they're getting smaller. I stand up and lean against one trying to push it back. "DAMMIT!" I scream punching the wall and leaving a hole. I keep punching the wall over and over and soon I can see blood on my knuckles, but I don't stop. I start throwing things all around. My bedsheets are thrown onto the floor, my dresser is pushed over, and my laptop is chucked out of the window. I walk over to my notebook and start ripping pages out. Pages of drawings, song lyrics, and poems. Pages that expressed who I was individualy, but honestly I can't even remember who that person was anymore. I'm just a shell of my former self, a shell, a figment, a lie.
Sleep. I haven't slept in a week. I've stayed up all night wondering what life would be like if I was dead. I bet it's be wonderful. I bet everyone would be happy. Everyone except my dad, Ryan Ross. He says I'm his pride and joy, his last connection to my mother. My mother, ugh. Even thinking about the word leaves a bad taste in my mouth. She's not my mother. She's just some whore that ran off with a guy 6 times her age just so she can steal his money. They got married exacly a year ago, two days before my 13th birthday, and I haven't seen her since. On my terms that is. I haven't wanted to see her since then. I was fine with her leaving; she never was a good mother anyways. She constantly left my dad and I home alone so she could go out partying and hook up with a random guy when I was younger. Plus he had to work so whever he wasn't home I was left alone. The youngest I was when my mom left me alone was two years old. Two. Can you believe that? Two years old, I could barely walk, and she left me home alone locked up in a closet, while she went off and got drunk.
Days. I feel like mine are numbered. Not in a bad way. That just means I might be able to get out of this hell hole early. Maybe I might be able to smile once I'm gone. People say 'Don't wish for death, because when it comes you won't be ready.' Well I'm pretty sure I'm 110% ready for death to take me into it's cold arms. I throw more paper everywhere.
Depression. Everyone deals with it every now and then, but it's worse for me. People say I get it from my dad. When he was younger he was the most picked on kid at school. Everyone hated him. Kind of like me. People pick on me and practically everyone hates me, so we're not that different. Everyone say's I overreact too much. Weel would you overreact if people were constantly making fun of you everyday? It's for stupid shit too.
"Your dad's an emo fag!" "Your dad's gay!" "Your just like your dad! You're stupid and emo" "I bet you cut yourself don't you, you little emo bitch?!" And that's just what a few of the things they say. I sat back down on the floor and continue to cry.
Smiling It's something I haven't done in years. It seems so unfamiliar now. I actually think I've forgotten how to do it. The same goes for laughing. Since 8th grade started I haven't laughed at all. I looked over to the mirror. I hate my reflection so I walk over to it and slam my fists into it as hard as I can; sending shards of glass everywhere, including my arm. I stare down at the large piece of glass in my arm and smile.
"Gabe what was all of the noise?" My dad asks through the door.
"N-nothing dad." I manage to say.
"Ok well there so-" He trails off as he walks in. "Oh my God Gabe! Why did you do this?! And what happened to you arm!? We have to get you to the hospital!"
"I did it because I had to. I broke the mirror, and glass went flying and one piece just so happen to hit my arm. And no I'm not going to the hospital." I shake my head. He can't make me. I reach down and pull the large piece of glass in my arm out. I scream and clench my teeth. The pain was unbearable but I was NOT going to a hospital. I show him my wrists and he gasps, running over to me to inspect the damage I've done.
"You need a hospital!" He says trying to pull me towards the door.
"Daddy. I don't need a hospital. I just need help."