It’s the first day of high school, also known as the first day in hell. Even though it was just the first day I was bullied by every girl in class. Sitting at the last table in the lunchroom eating the crumbs left from yesterday’s leftover lunch. Running to the bathroom every class to let out the ocean of salty tears that seemed never ending. My eyes burning from all the hatred and threats I constantly battle. This day feels like an eternity, walking from class to class through a maze of other students staring at you as if you have a huge pimple on your face. I dozed off missing the Spanish teachers boring lecture about what she expects for the rest of the year. That’s when the final bell rang. To many the final bell sound like the bells when entering heaven. However, to me it was a reminder of what would come next.
After this what could get worse you may ask. Walking 6 miles to the only place I could find a job. The walk felt like forever. My feet dragging against the floor as though I had just walked across a dessert. My backpack weighing at least 30 pounds weighing me down.
Surprisingly school nor the walk were the worst part of my day. Walking into the diner and being greeted by the dust bunnies forming in the air. Almost speed walking to the kitchen so I could get the little money I would be making as soon as possible.
I begin washing the dishes as I put my bag down by my feet. I hold the old shredded yellow sponge in my left hand and I grab the dirty dishes with my right. I grabbed a knife. Rubbing the sponge against the blade as foamy bubbles appeared on the shiny silver surface.
That is where it started, blood trickling down my hand. Just a small cut nothing compared to what I have been through. I grab a plate shattering it on the sink surface as red liquid blends into the shatters of white. Next a glass cup breaking with my touch. Blood mixed with water all over the sink. Another blade cut deeper than before. Blood clogging the pipes unable to take the amount of blood and tears one girl has. I knew I should have stopped. However I would not allow myself to be the reason in which my family is deported back to Mexico. I kept going. Even though I noticed the sink overflowing with a mixture of soap, blood and water. Eventually soaking through the seams of my ripped old converse that are 2 sizes too small. I wash more dishes and the cuts are bigger than ever. Slitting my wrists exposing the blood flowing through my veins. Swimming to the top just to get a single gasp of air. Too much blood, too much hatred. I still couldn’t stop. And it was forever until I drowned.