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Cheerleaders weren't called pigs. They weren't beaten up. They were the ones in the popular clique, going out every Friday and Saturday night.
Why don't you go roll in the mud, piggy?
Just some words I hear on a daily basis.
Followed by some bruises, some dirt, some hurt.
I try to tell the teacher. I try to tell her that it's getting to the point where I don't want to live anymore. She just ignores me, tells me to do my work. She praises the people I cant stand, as if she knew what they were doing to me, and was praising them for that. But no. She doesn't know. I doubt she ever will.
It isn't like my parents are going to anything. They just ignore me, too. My dad gets drunk, trying to spend as much time as he can away from his house. My mom tells me to toughen up, but she didn't have it as hard as I do when she was in high school. No. Cheerleaders weren't called pigs. They weren't beaten up. They were the ones in the popular clique, going out every Friday and Saturday night. They didn't have to worry about getting beat up the following Monday. Mom doesn't know how this feels like. She got to eat whenever and whatever she pleased. I eat an apple everyday and still feel the need to throw it back up.
Nothing ever seems to please them.
And then, one night, while I'm listening to mom and dad fight about whatever was on the agenda tonight, I get a crazy fucking idea. Why don't I end it all? Why don't I do everyone the favour of getting the fuck out of this world? That's what they'd all want, right?
So, I take dad's belt that he left in the room, right when he was about to give my nightly beating before mom called him down to argue, and I run to the next room, because in the next room, there's the ceiling fan. The ceiling fan will be my friend tonight. I hear dad marching up the stairs, ready to deliver a beating ten times as hard. I quickly tie the belt into a knot on the ceiling fan. I clip the belt into one of those holes, one that I can fit my head through. I can hear my dad's footsteps. He's looking for me.
That's the only time I've ever felt wanted.
I hop on a nearby stool. I put my head through the hole. I better get this right or else I'll get in trouble. Not for trying to commit suicide, but for not getting it right, and making it just another attempt. That's when I realize just how fucked up my life is. Huh. No matter. It'll all end in a few seconds. Dad's getting closer.
"Goodnight." I whisper.
And just as my dad opens the door, I end my poor excuse of a life.
And that's when they care.