Silent, Cold and Deadly.

Silence.

Cold.
Deadly.

Sharp eyes follow my every step, black shoes on red tiles. Taking in clothes, hair, makeup even. They follow me into my dreams. Distorting my reality till I’m messed up real good.
They think they are getting away with some great joke. Torturing another life is not a joke, it is not fun.
Every year it’s the same, snickers behind the back, flat tires till the back of my shoes break. Thumping my books from my arms in the halls, even shoving me hard into the lockers that litter the walkway. My shoulder was nearly separated from the last time.

Screaming and shouting slink through the thin walls of my bedroom. It’s this then that, whatever pops into their heads. Like me, money, how much they hate each other, my brother, me. Cups ding the walls, plates crash on the floor, and a chair plows through the window. The neighbors don’t bother any more, neither do the cops.
My door opens slowly, cautiously, to reveal my little brother, with a banged up lip bleeding heavily. Later as I lie in bed, I hear the door creak next to my bedroom and it ain’t the bathroom door. The pitiful crying comes next, smushing my head between the pillow and the cooled sheets above my mattress the sound fades away. Sleep rushes in.

I stare at the underwear-wearing girl in the mirror. I pinch the stomach of this girl, getting a good handful.

You’re so ugly.



You fat cow.





I hate you, you little sl*t, words that rattle around my brain with nothing better to do than to make me hate myself more and more. Life has lost all meaning to me. It’s become a routine that I wouldn’t dare stray away from. Safety is in routine. Drag myself out of bed, get dressed in baggy clothes, throw away breakfast, escape through the bathroom window and manage to get through the living h*ll that is school and then sleep.

Life continues onwards and frightfully downwards. Ever spiraling out of control and out of my reach. I stand forever an observer in my own story, wanting to pause, wanting it to stop or go away. I try to warn them, tell them what they are missing but the words stick fast in my throat, unwilling to budge. I’ve thought about killing myself so many times I lost count. So simple to just give in to the thoughts that nag me and nag me.

Do it. Whispers

Do it. Teasing.

Do it. Taunting.

But just one look at that poor boy in the bed next to me, stroking his hair with one hand and I know I can’t just give up. I have to try. I have to make myself do it, if not for me for him. Go to that building which houses the crushed up hope of others.
I just have to reach out and say it.









“ Help.”





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