FicWad

"What in God's name did you do?" she yelled at me.
I said nothing. Why was she yelling at me like this?
"You're eleven years old," she yelled, "You have no idea what you're doing! You have no reason to be doing this!"
"So you mean dad dying, being picked on at school and living a miserable life isn't a good reason?" I said.
"What?"
"Yeah! You don't even know the facts," I said.
I explained everything to her. She agreed to take me out of public school and put me in home education, which was something I'd been wanting for a long time.

*Bob POV*

I was worried about her now. She could do it again, and no one would see her. She might not even do it at home. But I could trust her, right? Yeah, I could. But in the three days 'til I saw her again, I couldn't help but feel she'd kill herself.
She was sitting on her bed, with her head buried in her hands.
"How's it going?" I said, going into her room. At least she was still alive.
"Not good," she said, sitting up, "I'm scared, scared that I'm gonna do it again without thinking."
"Well we can hide the kitchen knives if that helps," I said. It sounded a bit lame, but it could work.
"There are other ways," she said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
She sighed and pointed under her bed, "Third box on the right."
So I knelt down and pulled out a small, wooden box. In it were knives, other types of blades, pills, syringes, and I think I even saw a hand pistol at the bottom.
"Jen-" I was speechless.
"I know," she said, "But I don't want them anymore, they're taking me over."
"But why?"
"I was saving them for a rainy day," she said.
"Where did you get all this stuff?" I asked.
"Around. Well, just from one person actually," she said.
"When?"
"Well, when I was eight, I was talking to one of Megan's friends who was fourteen. He was very dark and mysterious and had these theories about life, which no one could understand. But I could, and he made me see that life... ain't so great. So anyway, he had a friend who was a drug-slash-weapons dealer who gave him free stuff. And he passed this stuff onto me. He told me that if life was ever screwing me over, there was always a way out," she said.
"So you've had this stuff since you were eight?"
She nodded.
"And who is this guy?" I asked. He obviously needed to be talked to as well.
"Oh, he's long gone, killed himself months ago," she said. Well, it made sense.
"But you can't tell anyone," she pleaded. The look in her eyes was so innocent and frightened; you would never believe she could do something like this. I sighed, this was way more serious than I'd ever imagined.
"I hate being like this," she said, "I've never been normal. Even when I was five, I wanted to paint my room black and take out all the windows, and have fake blood on the walls. But I just want be normal. I want to be different, but normal. And I want to have enough friends to go into town with on the weekend, and I want to get annoyed if I break a nail. But I'm not. I'm me. And I hate it."
"You're perfect the way you are. All you need to do is get over this depression and you'll be fine," I said. She was eleven. She shouldn't need to worry about these things.
"I don't think I'm ever gonna get over it," she said.
"Course you will," I said, "Y'know who you need to talk to?"
"Who?"
"Gerard. He was suicidal for a long time but he managed to get over it. I'll bring him round sometime," I said.
"Ok, thanks," she said.
"No problem,"