Don't lose hope.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
My first story.
It's a working progress.

Submitted: June 15, 2013

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Submitted: June 15, 2013

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You know that feeling that you get at the pit of your stomach before you go on a roller coaster? Yeah, I have that everyday when I wake up. I HATE looking at myself in the mirror. Every time I walk past it, it makes me feel sick. I always have to look at my reflection every time I walk past a mirror. Sometimes I'm happy with the reflection, when I'm having a good spell, but other times I just can't help but cry. I look up and down my arms, run my fingers over the cuts I made from a day ago and sigh."Why do I have to go through all this? Hell, why am I even alive?" I growl and punch the mirror. The blood trickles down my hand as I continue to stare at my crooked reflection. I just stare at it, and then look down at my hand. My hand. Why do i really have to be like this? Why do I have to exist and breathe every fucking second of the day? I walk into the bathroom, run my hand under the cold water, bandage it up and walk back into my room with a razor. I sit down in the middle of my floor and text the guy i like.

 

I’m sorry. I love you.

 

I hover the razor over my wrist and quickly slash it. I grit my teeth and gasp, before crying. I cut down my right arm, and stop, throwing the razor to one side of the room.

I study my bloody arm, and sigh. I hear my mother walk up the stairs and I quickly rush to put my red, long-sleeved top on and wipe the tears away from my face.

“Is everything okay sweetie?” She asked as she held onto the door handle.

“Yes mum, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? If there’s something going on, you can tell me!”
”I’m fine” I smile weakly “Honestly.”

She stands there for a few moments, before smiling and walking out.
I take the top off and clean up the smudged blood on my arm. I hear my phone vibrate and I rush into my room. He texted me back.

You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.

 

I start tearing up as I text him.

No, I’m fine. I’ll always be fine. I love you.

 

A few days go by as a blur. The same amount of bullying goes on in school. The throwing of food, calling me names, tripping me up. I don’t retaliate though, they’d want that. But the Friday of that week just makes me snap.

“Oi monghead, where are you going? Back to your hole with your granddad?” One of the girls laughed.
I grit my teeth and try to ignore them.

“Oh what’cha going to do? Tell your mummy? She hated the old fucker, didn’t she? He thought of you as his daughter, not his grandchild.” Another girl shouts.

I turn around and clench my fists. “Take that back.”
The girl walks up to me and laughs, “Or what?”
That was the first fight I was ever in. And the last. That day, I ran home as fast as I could, she knew where I lived and wanted me to fight her again.

I slammed the door and ran upstairs. I collapsed on the floor and cried. Must’ve been there for hours, as my dad came home and that was around 5.

He walked upstairs and started complaining. But I had other things to worry about. The voices. My urges.

You know everyone hates you, just stop trying to cling onto your pathetic little life. The voices said.

They just kept going on about it, and my urges began to build up.

I ran into the bathroom, locked the door and looked at myself in the mirror.

“Why am I even alive?” I whisper as I cry.

I get out my phone and text the guy I like.

 

I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry that you’ve wasted so much time on me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay longer, but I have no reason to stay. I’m sorry, I’ll watch over you. I love you so much, I’ll never forget you.

I pick up the razor and start cutting deeper than I did before. I get out the note I wrote for my mum and dad and place it on the floor.

My dad knocks on the door, telling me to get out, as he needs to go to the bathroom.

I ignore him and carry on cutting. My arms, my legs, my chest and my hips are covered.

I cry, and slit my throat. Thoughts go through my mind, in my final moments.

 

‘I’ll always love you, no matter what’

‘I’m so proud of you, my little fighter’

‘Promise me you won’t do anything when I’m gone, ok?’

‘You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.’

‘I love you.’

 

He rings my phone and I answer it.

“Sweetie, what’s going on? Are you okay?!” He cries.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” I whisper as I slip away.

He starts sobbing as my dad bangs down the door and rings up an ambulance, crying and asking that boy questions.

That was my last glimpse of life, those last moments. My life just… gone.


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Don't lose hope.

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