Important Note: This is a continuing work of fiction. See Part 1 for full disclaimer.
Click here for part 1...
Wake up alone, once again. My life continues its long, dark journey into the abyss. When I go down for breakfast, my mom has thrown out the trash - the one containing the cornflake. I scream abuse at her, but she doesn't understand. No-one does. She starts crying, so I have to stop shouting at her. She's pathetic.
School is as sucky as ever. Another exam today - it's a personal development one, to pinpoint your future career. It's designed to point out the areas you like and dislike, so there are no right or wrong answers. I'll probably still fail it, though. I don't deserve anything else.
Oh my God. In the lunch queue, I am right behind Ryan. He's on his own, and when he turns to pick up a sandwich, he sees me. I say "hey". He says "hey" back. I freeze, can't say anything else, and we go our separate ways.
Spend most of lunch crying in the toilets. What did he mean? "Hey"? It's so fraught with possibilities. "Hey I like you"? "Hey I hate you?" Christ. The one thing that keeps me from slitting my wrists there and then, is the knowledge that I'll never find out what he meant. That and not having any razor blades.
Fail the exam. I knew I would. I always do. I hate myself. When will they understand, my low grades are due to severe, clinical depression?
Walk home. On the way, I notice a leaf in a drain. It looks so forlorn, so sad, so lonely - almost as lonely as me. I wonder if the leaf feels these things. I wonder if it killed itself, leaping from the tree because it couldn't take it anymore? I start crying, sitting on the ground holding the leaf to my chest and rocking. People walking by give me strange looks. What the fuck do they know? If only Ryan could see me now, see what he's done to me. Why does he hurt me so much? Does he hate me? Does he hate me even more than I hate myself? Is that even possible?
I take the leaf with me. We can be lonely together.
I get home, and my mom is sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine. It's not her first, either. What the fuck's up with her? It's not like she has any real problems. Not like me. She asks me how my day was. I just look at her, disgusted. I can't even put into words how much contempt I feel for her. She starts crying again, so I just leave her there. I have enough problems without having to deal with this shit.
Go up to my room, and put the leaf inside the pages of my Jim Morrison autobiography. Stare out the window for 4 hours.
Consider suicide. Decide to give it one more day.
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Click here for part 5...
Click here for part 6...