It Was A Mistake. My Mistake.

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It was a big mistake. A stupid mistake. Why did I say that? Why had I been so stupid? He made me mad, that’s why. And just minutes before he made me mad, he had been trying to give me a hug. Trying to comfort me. But then he made me mad. Why does he always make me mad? And why do I fall in love with him all over again after every time he makes me mad?

Derrick told me something today. Something that would change my life. He told me that he was tired of seeing me get mad at him. He hated when I got mad at him. So he cut himself. He showed me the scars. On along his arms were deep gouges that could have only been made by a knife. Why does he hurt himself?

He told me something that ruined my life. Because I knew that I was the one that drove him to cutting himself. If I didn’t get mad at him so easily, he wouldn’t be doing this to me. To us. I quickly ran out of the room with tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t think straight. I grabbed my phone out of my back pocket. There was only one person I wanted to talk to. So I called him.

“Hello?” he answered. He is my best friend, practically a brother to me, and just hearing his voice made me feel better.

“Do it. Beat him up. Knock some sense into him.” Every time Derrick made me mad, he wanted to beat him up. Every time. And every time I had said no, it wasn’t worth it. I would get over it. But not this time.

“Who?”

“Derrick. Do it. Just get it over with. I’m not gonna say no anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I hung up my phone, and shoved it back into my pocket. I just sat there and cried. I hated crying. I felt so vulnerable. I never cried. Why was I crying? Hands caressed my shoulders as they shook. And I realized I had just made a big mistake. I didn’t want Derrick hurt. I called Dustin back. “Don’t. Just ignore everything I just said. I didn’t mean any of it. Don’t hurt him. Please.” I was begging him.

“I’m done with him hurting you like this. You don’t deserve it. He needs to be taught a lesson,” he said. I heard the anger in his voice, and I could see the angry face on the other line.

“Please,” I begged.

“He needs to be taught a lesson,” he said. He ended the call; I couldn’t beg him anymore. He was going to do it. He was going to hurt my Derrick.

The next day I wished I could die. I saw Derrick in school. He had a fat lip, a black eye, and a badly bruised face. I had done this to him. I felt as if my own hands were responsible for this act. He never talked to me again. Why did I make that mistake?





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