The Hardest Choice

March 4, 2010
Emo. Freak. Goth. Creep. Weirdo. Crack-head. That’s what I hear every day. I lay on my bed. Scars. Scars on my wrists on my arms on my back. Not from myself. No. from all the times I’ve been jumped. Beaten up. Its worse for guys but God . . . don’t these kids know not to hit a girl? No one believes me. Because of the way I look. Before I had long blonde hair, tan skin, bright blue eyes, and a rich mother and father who loved me. But that was before the accident. The accident I’m talking about is a car accident. I almost died . . . well in a way I did . . . the old me died.
I saw God he said: “Jenna I’ll give you a chance to live . . . but not as the rich Miami girl you were. No. as a poor Detroit girl.”
Begging for my life, I took it. And now instead of tan skin, I have pale, instead of long blonde curls I have raggedy black hair, instead of my bright blue eyes, I have dead black ones, instead of buttery tan skin, I have paper white, instead of parents who love me, I have none, instead of being preppy, I’m emo.
Instead of taking life for granted I owned up and appreciate life. I stare at these scars and wonder did I make the right choice? Should I have stayed in Heaven with my mother and father? Or was I right? Tell me. What would you have done?

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