Like Me | Teen Ink

Like Me

November 8, 2015
By KawaiiCooper DIAMOND, Winter Garden, Florida
KawaiiCooper DIAMOND, Winter Garden, Florida
56 articles 0 photos 34 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I'm well acquainted with villains that live in my head."

The clouds were grey, like they were trying to cry, but couldn’t. Like me.


I was walking home from school, prompt as always. Prompt like I’ve been taught, or else.


Christmas was just around the corner, and life was dismal at best. Christmas spirit affects everyone but my broken family, and I feel like a fool for getting my hopes up.


As I approach my home, I catch a disappointed glimpse of the property. The exterior of my house is pristine; the paint has been spared the glare of the sun, the sidewalk is white and free from dirt, and the gutters and roof are leafless.


But like the saying goes, it’s the inside that counts.


Every wall within is a filthy eggshell, and except for a single chair, empty of all furniture.


Empty, besides from their separate rooms.


I don’t have a room. I don’t have a bed. My living area is this barren box, and the chair is where I sleep.


When I step through the door, I drop my backpack by my sole piece of furniture, and sit. I’m listening for something, anything. Anything to tell me what I’ll be bombarded with.


And I hear it. A bottle, shattering against the ground. Slurred strings of curses follow, and a door swings open. The handle crashes into the wall with a crunch, and I run outside, fear overcoming my numbness. I crouch behind the perfectly trim hedges and watch as my dad stumbles out, tripping over his own feet. He yells at some kids who don’t hear him and shambles away, where someone will find him passed out in a ditch and bring him home.


But that’s another nightmare.


I’ve learned to take them one at a time.


When I sneak back in, I come face to face with my grandma. She scowls at me, and my heart sinks.


“What were you doing out, child? Selling yourself?” She hisses, and I look at the floor. But I’m a virgin…




“Oh, shut up,” my grandma snaps. “No one wants to hear it.”


I feel prickling in my throat, like I might cry. But the tears don’t come.


They never do.


I’m still looking at the ground, trying to dig into my hurt for hot, gasping sobs when my grandma leaves me. She waddles to her room, furnished with a comfy bed and painted walls. And she leaves me, alone, an outcast, even in my own home.


So I sit on my chair, staring at the door.


And I fall asleep.




I was thirsty, so I opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of water. But when I stepped back, I accidentally hurt my mom’s dog’s foot. He cried, and I scooped him up.


“I’m so sorry,” I said, fear leaping in my chest. I kissed his head and pet him, my hands shaking. I don’t know what I thought… petting him wouldn’t save me.


And it didn’t.


My mom, furious, stamped over to me and yanked her dog from out of my arms. She beat the side of my head, despite my attempts at getting away. By the time she was done, I had shrunken to the floor and tried to fold into myself, anything to shield myself from her fist.


My mom turned to walk away, but she stopped after a few steps. Without turning her head, she said, “I knew I should have aborted you. You ruined my life.”


And then she continued, leaving me crumbled in the kitchen, the side of my face bloody and already bruising over.



When I wake up, I feel my eyes, checking for tears. It doesn’t matter that my dreams aren’t dreams, but flashbacks from the past; I can’t cry.


I return to the present with a start, and realize it’s dark. I can hardly see, so I stumble to the kitchen and flick on a light. The lamp glows to life, and underneath it on the table, three objects on a red and white candy cane platter.


Upon closer inspection, they turn out to be a bottle of pills, a note, and a pad of paper. Next to it is a fountain pen, and I pick it up, admiring its weight and gold tip. Then I read the note:


You’ve believed me to be fake for years, I know. I also know life extinguished the last scrap of hope you had around the same time. But let me assure you, I’m very much real. I’ve never done anything like this, but you were dealt a bad deck, and I hope to amend that. I know you’ve hoped for this, and while I feel awful indulging you, I wouldn’t hope for any different in your situation.


- Mr. Claus


With shock, I eye the note once more, unsure if this was one of my great-grandma’s mind games. Something to make me feel bad, to mess with my self-esteem while she feels proud of how well she played her role as puppeteer.


But whether or not this is her, I’ll take the opportunity I was given.


I lift the pen, and scribble a note to accompany my body. But I stop halfway through, realizing that my family could care less about a note, and would throw it with my body in the garbage like they did to my cat when she died.


So I crumple the note in my hand, stick it in my pocket, and swallow half the bottle.


I leave the house, feeling fine, and walk away.


By the time I reach the woods, the pills start taking hold of me. I feel sick as bitter saliva floods my mouth, and I’m having a hard time walking. Finally, I collapse on my knees, retching in my mouth. But I swallow it down and lay on my side, my chest heaving.


And I look at the sky out of the corner of my eye.


The clouds were grey, like they were trying to cry, but couldn’t. Like me. 

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