February 1, 2012
By Anonymous

Depressed. That’s how I feel inside all the time. I look at birds, see them flying. And I think about the hunters in the woods. Taking shots at them. Ripping their limbs apart for supper. It ain’t right, but nothing is right now, anyways.

My thin blue tee shirt hugs my body. The winter’s coming, and I can’t afford a jacket. This tee shirt will have to keep me warm. The shirt looks like the sky that birds fly away in. The stains from broken wine bottles is like the blood from dying birds. My lonely pair of skinny jeans look like branches of tall trees the dead bird sees as it drops. And my torn up Converse must be the dead birds themselves.

My old home was where I learned that life ain’t perfect. That’s where I got the blue shirt, and the skinny jeans, and the Converse. I always was depressed. Mom said my real dad had depression. That’s were I got it from, part of my genetic blueprint. My real dad wanted to take his anger out. When he joined the army, he got his head blown off. I don’t remember. I don’t even care anymore. He probably deserved it. Everyone deserves to die. I deserve to die.

My mom remarried Anthony. I hated him. The way he walked around like he could do anything. Such lies he told. That it was okay to be yourself, that it is okay to breathe every once in a while. That it is okay to love. It is never okay to love. You get betrayed, back stabbed. Only fools love. But he was a fool.

Anthony would get drunk a lot. It bothered me. The smell of alcohol that had suddenly invaded my quiet world. He was scary drunk. Anthony would throw fits, he would cry. He would stab me with knives. One day, I lost it.

“Hey there pretty bird come here pretty bird what’s the matter pretty bird... pretty bird.” He called me into the kitchen just like he normally did. I went in, maybe he was sober. Maybe I was wrong.

“What do ya want?” I questioned. Anthony stood up. He was tall, six foot eight it seemed. Possibly just because I was short. I could see the wine bottle in his hand. When he took a swing, I dodged it. Or attempted to. It shattered on my waist, breaking through the thin blue tee shirt. Blood started pounding. The wine splashing everywhere. All up into my hair, down my cheeks. Into the floor. Staining everything it touched, a red deeper than blood.

“Hey there pretty bird why aren’t you dead yet pretty bird Hey look the world's scarlet Just like your name, Scarlet the pretty dead bird die already Scarlet, just die.” His words were slurred, but I could hear him say my name. Not my nickname, or my real name, or my last name, or my middle name. But my name, the name I signed my diary with. Scarlet. A beautiful color, a strong name. Much better than my first, actual name. But I never go by Lucy. Lucy is such a dull, boring name. There’s no color, no light, so filled with hope though. But I am hopeless. I am red like blood, pink like embarrassment, and scarlet like the fever. I am Scarlet.

“Don’t call me that!” I grabbed a handful of glass from the stained floor. And I toss it in the air. Every piece, reflecting the blood. Reflecting the wine. They all land on Anthony’s face. Every ounce of anger in me comes out in one blow. I take the broken wine bottle from the floor. It digs into my hand. My blood is Scarlet. My face is Scarlet. I need to make Anthony Scarlet. He is red now, pulsing with furry. Flooding with life. Falling. Falling onto the bottle, Falling onto me. I push his intoxicated body off of me. He’s spewing out blood now. And when he’s gone and dead, I run like a coward.

It is so empty walking in the cold. No one would take me in. I killed someone, so I’m a criminal. I’m barely alive, just living off the cold inside my heart. I haven’t found a good place to die yet. But isn’t that the journey of life? Just wondering around until you’re old and find a nice spot to die in peace? I don’t want to die in peace, I want to be destroyed into pieces.

I keep walking, looking like dead birds. Past the emptiness. I can see children playing. At least that's what their parents think. They don’t see the rocks thrown, or the sticks stabbed, or the laughing at a scrapped knee. They just see the outside, the nice, cute kids. I show the inside on my wine stained shirt, I am braver than any child. Any human.

I am here, waiting for police. Not hiding, out in the open. If they took me, I wouldn’t lie. Throw me in jail and give me the death penalty, that would be fine with me. I show them all what bad looks like, because everyone forgets the real person. All they see is Scarlet, that girl who killed her dad. No one sees Lucy, the girl that volunteers at animal shelters on weekends. I am both of these people. Yet half of me is invisible.

I walk out of the town, my eyes closed shut. Even if I open them, they would still be dead like the birds. I glance in the sky and see flying birds. And all I can think is: I want to be you. I want to at least be free, before they hunt me down.

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