Self-destruction in a Box

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Hey mum, I’m in class and so bored so I decided to write you a letter: I am sitting in a cold, grey plastic chair at the back corner of the rectangular classroom. This four cornered room wasn’t just a room to me in fact all three corners had the same meaning apart from the one where I am now. The corner I am in now means safety. It guards me like i’m in my own cell because, if anything happens to me here, anyone can see, especially my teachers.

You see, some people are probably jealous of me seeing as I get unlimited attention from the queens of the food chain at this deluded school. I get the privilege of sitting with the most popular girls at school every lunch break, I listen to them trade secrets or even watch them braid each others locks! Each lunch break shows me something new.

Unfortunately these new things aren’t how they reluctantly paint each others carefully trimmed nails or carefully apply their make-up, no, every lunch I get to see them do something to me whether it be a fist in the face, tug of war with my hair, or strangling me up to the last moment before death.

My names Kara. I am fifteen years old. I have black frizzy hair, sort of like snakes, which I think is quite cool. My eyes are brown, to me they sparkle whenever I look at myself, I think they’re pretty, they are the only thing that make me smile because I’m my only friend and only my eyes can see this. My mouth is shaped like an arch, the type which points downwards either end. I would love to be able to smile but I’m not capable too; my happiness and pride has been taken away by girls my age, quite weird but I guess that’s how life works, I mean, I don’t know anything different. Anyway, I have spots like any normal teenager, according to my mum it’s hormonal or something so I don’t really care that they’re there, they don’t seem to bother me, I’m just a joke to everyone but myself so may as well stay that way. I used to have short ‘elephant legs’ and a large bowling ball stomach, but not anymore. Apparently throwing up helps you loose wait. It was slowly stuffing my broken finger down my never ending throat at first, but I got used to it, it’s just a daily routine for me now, but don’t tell my mum, she doesn’t really know because I wear baggy clothes to make sure she doesn’t identify my defenceless body.

Wait, what was that? Oh, it’s just the school siren telling me that it’s time to get dragged to a corner and beaten up, as if I didn’t know that already! It’s weird how I am the only one who gets pulverised in this specific classroom, maybe it happens to other victims in different classrooms depending on their favourite subjects? The classroom I always get beaten up in is art. I love art because I can escape and let everyone aware of my actual feelings. I know i’m not alone though, i’ve dealt with this my whole life, and I think other people in this school go through it as well but I have decided not to tell anyone because it’s a way of life and everyone goes through it! I just know that some day the dark grey clouds will one day break up and a ray of sunshine will be posed upon me.

***

Her mum came home from work late that afternoon. A little too late. As she walked in she saw the note Kara left on the sharp-edged glass table. That’s the Kara she knew, always trying to make a joke and think of the positive. After half-heartedly placing her black fur coat on the banister a long with her red faux leather bag, the letter Kara left sunk in. She speedily re-read it and noticed the exposed words which explained Kara’s recent awkward behaviour. A single tear motionlessly dropped on the worthless paper, Kara’s mother realised she hadn’t been there for her daughter. She hadn’t given her a hug. She hadn’t asked her about life. She hadn’t told her she loved her for at least a year.

Suzanne, Kara’s mother, raced up the wooden stairs in an animalistic fashion. She tripped a few times but that didn’t stopped out she cried out, ‘Kara! Kara! I love you baby!’ No reply. The first place she ran to was Kara’s hiding place, her room, but nobody was there. On the floor laid her ripped adidas school bag with her books hanging out of it. The black bag noticeably contrasted against the hot pink carpet and wall paper. Another scream, ‘Kara! Where are you!’ She dashed from one room to another until the only room left was the bath room. Suzanne smashed open the door with all her strength, all though it was unlocked, and fell on her knees screaming for the life of her daughter who was lying there in peace on the floor with a box of lethal cyanide painfully laying next to her.

‘I love you. I haven’t said that for a long time, have i baby?’ Suzanne sniggered to herself, ‘You were always my life and still are. Don’t you forget that. Why didn’t you tell me about what has been going on you stupid girl? Now am I meant to feel as if this is my fault, because it isn’t. It d*** right isn’t! Why are you doing this to yourself, why! Why!’

No reply.

‘Kara!’

No reply.





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