I jump into my crimson red truck with the tinted windows and cry my soul out. I take the knife from under the pasenger's seat and cut my wrist in the school parking lot like i always do. The strangers walk across the parking lot and stare at me except for the boy with the tusseled brown hair. He was different. He would come to my window and tell me "Hi" then walk away. He wasn't afraid of me like everyone else but i was afraid of him. He was dfferent than me. He had parents and i didn't. He had a life and i didn't. He wasn't sitting in this crimson truck slicing his wrist open to stop the pain like i was. He was normal and i wasn't. Maybe he wanted to help me or call a therapist for me like all the teachers. No matter where i am at he always finds a way to find me. At the lockers, behind the dumpster, in my truck. You name it. He even knows my name strangly. So for now i call him my creeper and when he says hi i tell him "Get out of my face creeper before i bash your face in" and all he says is "Don't hide your shame Emily" and walks away. I hate my life. But i hate my creeper even more.
July 13, 2010