It is Friday again, and I am so alone once again. I hate living alone, and being alone all the time. It seems like it will never end. I think to myself, why can't my life be how it was a year
ago, my mother was still alive, my daughter was still alive, and I was dating someone who I thought I was in love with.
How could it all go to shit in one year? I always found myself asking myself.
Sitting home, on my couch on another Friday night, what a fucking life, I thought to myself.
Flipping through the channels trying to find something on, of course there was nothing on that sparked my interest, so I walked into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of Gatorade and headed back to the couch.
The first shot goes down easily, taking a gulp of vodka. I sit back into the couch, and grab my notebook, and start writing again. Trying to get all my pain, and hurt, and anger out on my paper, and get it out of me.
The anger coming out on my paper, send me into a panic attack. I get up from the couch, and run upstairs to my bedroom. I go to my nightstand, and I pull out my box cutter. I slide it across my wrist, watching the blood flow. Screaming out, yelling at the top of my lungs.
I clean up the cut, wait for the blood to stop, breathing returns back to normal.
I walk back downstairs, and take another shot of vodka. I pick up my journal and start writing again.
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Short Story / Fan Fiction
Article / Non-Fiction
Poem / Poetry
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