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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
you were always there., controlling my every move. you ended my life, and here's why...

Submitted: January 15, 2019

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Submitted: January 15, 2019




Before you, life was simple.  You came along and our convoluted journey began.  I longed for you to come each day, using you as an excuse for my aguish and grief. I never wanted to admit it, but you were to blame for everything. You made me feel as if life was brief and lackadaisical, but it was my fault. I initiated you. I opened my doors and let you walk into my life. And if it wasn’t for you, my life wouldn’t have ended.

Our twisted journey began the night of July 4th. A holiday I longed for every year.  We would sit under the darkness of the sky, admiring the faithful stars overhead. The stillness of the night made me feel safe and serene. The bonfire lay before us. I idolized the dancing flames, longing for a chance to dance besides them. Dance showed me how to appreciate myself. It made me vulnerable and for the first time in a long time, I loved myself. Until you came along, and stripped my self-love away, like it was a band aid.

The skies aflame with the setting sun, as the morning starts peeking behind the clouds. At around 5:43am, my mother began picking up the red paper plates that were scattered on the grass. I began to help her and we both went inside to clean up. Before I knew it I was back outside to pick up more plates, and the sight I saw next is something I will never forget; my father, draped over the plastic chair. I dashed towards him and wrapped my arms around him. I shook him and and blared out his name, but there was no use. I screeched out for my mother, as my fathers clammy hands were turning purple.

6am. The police finally came. I stood on my front porch, watching my father being taken away in a plastic bag like he was worthless trash. It was silent, like a forgotten melody. I didn’t shed a tear. That filled me with guilt, as I watched my father’s hands being tucked into the bag. The only emotion I felt in that moment was anger. I was so exasperated yet at peace. As the ambulance where my fathers lifeless body lay drove away, I exhaled a breath of relief. That’s when I realised, that my  past had heavily influenced my life, and it wasn’t until the day of my fathers death, that I was able to admit that.

I was sexually abused at the age of 8. When you’re a kid you’re always taught to shy away from the unknown. The darkness, strangers. But it never occurred to me that danger can be found within your safety. Within your home, filled with memories of the dearest birthdays, or happiest thanksgivings, until it happened to me. My own father, my hero, my idol, my knight in shining armour. He took advantage of an innocent, inspired young child, and the saddest part is, he was the one who inspired me. He didn’t even have to convince me to keep my mouth shut, or that we were just playing, because he knew I wouldn’t dare tell. He knew that my naïve, little brain, was convinced that my father would never hurt me. And I didn’t realise how much It affected me, until he died. Until I was spared a burden because I didn’t have anyone to protect anymore. I didn’t have someone’s life in my hands anymore.  And that filled me with guilt. Again. That guilt, it drove me mad. It brought me so much emotional pain. I needed to do something to get rid of it. The emotional pain, is way worse than the physical.

At the beginning, it was merely blood. Perfect lines crossed my wrists, leaving red, wet tracks across my skin. Death wasn’t my goal. It never was. I wanted to hurt myself. I felt guilt. I wanted to feel the pain and sorrow my mother felt after my father’s passing, that I simply couldn’t feel. I wanted to feel the pain, the pain you should feel after someone you love has gone. But I couldn’t. So I went deeper. Not only in my emotional thoughts, but in my physical. The red tracks across my skin, became deep, brutal scars. And that’s all that’s left. A scarred body.

Leading up to this I portrayed no unusual behaviour. I laughed with my friends, I talked with my mum about school, I even talked to a teacher about an upcoming poem contest I was interested in admitting too. I had to show no signs of uncommon behaviour, which was hard to say the least.  The days leading up to my sinful act, I was happier than I’ve ever been, but it wasn’t me. It was a fake wall I had put up to protect myself from sympathy of others. That damn sympathy which I always cowered too.

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