It Is Unleashed (story 2)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is the second part, the second story of Sam.
There's a lot of things out there that people believe. If they're true, I don't really know. If they're wrong...well that's for you to find out.

Submitted: April 08, 2008

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Submitted: April 08, 2008

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People want to believe what they hear. That they're smart. Beautiful. Sweet. Down to earth. The truth is, nobody ever says that. Sure it may come out of their mouth. But can you be sure it comes out of their heart? That's why I learned not to trust. I don't believe in honesty. It's not overrated. It's just wrong. You can't trust anybody. Sooner or later they'll turn and stab you right in the back. Sometimes, it's in the literal sense. Life just causes pain. Mental pain. Physical pain. Verbal pain. Just pain all around. It hurts more than you give it credit for. And before you know it. It too will stab you right in the back.

I've been called mental. Crazy. Messed up. Demented. Stupid. Depressed. I'm not. But you can't trust me to know that what I say comes from the heart. Right? It doesn't need to. At least in my sense it doesn't. Maybe in yours. Not mine. Though there's always a time when you can trust some. Even if it's just for the fraction of a second. But it's not because you trust what they're saying. You don't really trust. You believe. You want to believe that what they're saying is true. That your smart. Beautiful. Sweet. Down to earth. You might be. I wouldn't know. But you can't trust me on that. Can you? This is why I have no friends. All of them stabbed me in the back. I can't trust anybody. Nobody. Not one soul. Not one.

There are people out there who think they're cool. Badass. Funky. Better than everyone. Handsome. Popular. Rich. Some are. I'm sure of it. Some aren't. I'm sure of that too. As years wear on, a new thing has come. Emo. Do you know what that means? It's short for emotional. Nobody likes being friends with emo's. They're too emotional. They cut themselves. They think it's the only way to cope. It is. At least for me it is. Maybe not for you. But for me. People nowadays walk down the halls. They expose their wrists to the world. Scars. Everywhere. Scratched across their wrists as if they were tatoos. Body art. Their sign. They show them to everybody as if it's something to look up too. Please. They know. Nothing. Absolutely. Nothing. They think that emo is the new cool. That cutting themselves because they have too much homework, or their girlfriend wont call. It's highly pathetic. Highly. Pathetic. I'm fed up with people like that. They just make me want to cut. Cut more.

Inside everyone is someone nobody can uncover. A piece of the puzzle that's always been missing. In your heart. Your soul. Anything. Anything at all. Anything you want it to be. But no matter what comes along. It stays there. That piece. Hidden deep within the body. The heart. The soul. Anywhere you want it to be. It stays there. It's lost. Completely lost. And it cannot be found. No matter how hard people try to find it. It's lost. Forever. So whats the point in looking? That's what they say. Or at least that's my assumption. Assumptions. When people assume it's either because they aren't sure of themselves, and what they want to do, or they're just so fed up with their lives that they're trying to tell anothers life. Typical. It happens a lot. I see it. I smell it. I hear it. It's everywhere. But you should always keep on looking for that piece. Whether it's inside yourself. Or inside somebody else. What else are you going to do with your time? What else are you supposed to do? Now that's a million dollar question. If I knew the answer, I'd bet more than a million bucks.

Labels. The world. You see the relation? They run our lives. Consume is the pit of hell until we're completely swallowed up by our weaknesses. By the things that hurt us most. Labels. They're what seperate us. Emo's. Gansters. Preppy's. Blondes. Skaters. Smarties. Druggies. Everyone. How we dress. What we do. How we do it. And how we act. It all puts us under one name. Who knows which one? Here's another question.  Is it what we do that defines who we are, or who we are that defines what we do? There's another million dollar question. But I'm sure I'd bet more. I'm sure you would too.

I sit at the lunch table. There's everybody. They surround me like bees wanting back the honey that I stole. But I didn't. I stole nothing. They know that too. I'm staring at the table. My lunch tray sits in front of me, untouched. The food has turned cold, and my drink is still wrapped. My hands clench my knees, my nails digging in. My hood is up, and my hair hangs in front of my face. Even though there are so many people, I can't hear a thing. It's like everything is on mute. No sound. None. I can hear nothing. I slowly unlench my fingers and slide my arms up my thigh. I bring it up onto the table and keep it there. I don't know why. I probably look like an idiot with my hand just sitting like that. So I bring up my other hand, and then slowly bring my sleeve up.

The scars are there. Crisscrossed back and forth all the way up to my elbow. They're red and puffy. Fresh. From yesterday. I remember it clearly. The tears. The noises. The feelings of being numb. It was like it had just happened. And it had. Yesterday. As clear as water. My eyes traveled over them, the vivid images of blood oozing from them dripping before me like a painting not yet dried. The pain dripping. Dripping. Down the sad canvas. The woman. She's crying. The blue paint. It mixes with her eyes. And the frame. It's broken. Cracked. And she's alone. Crying. Sobbing.

I shove my sleeves back down my arms as a few people stop to stare. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I bring my arms back under the table and let out a long sigh. Something I haven't done. In a very long while. I stand up. The people stop talking at my table. I leave my tray. I push back my chair and begin to walk out. Out. Far away. And nobody is stopping me. Nobody. Not one person. Not one. My eyes burn with the tears that haven't come yet. I don't want them to come. I don't want to feel them again. Running down my face. Hot. Sticky. Never ending. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I push open the door to an empty hallway. There is nobody. Not one person. I want to cut. I want to. I have to. I need to. Now.

I make my way to the bathroom, but pause outside the door. I hear voices. I let out another sigh. Then I leave. I leave. Out of the hallway. Out of the school. And just leave. Far far away. I run. Endlessly. Towards an unknown destination. My feet carry me to an unknown area. And now I'm gone. Out. Far away. I am cut. Deep inside with invisible scars. Deep. Deep inside. Where nobody can see. I am cut.


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