Everyday. It is the same monotonous cycle. Over and over again; a repetitive pounding like a drum beating holes into an already bruised mind. I’ve been working on it. For weeks now, I have been writing and re-writing a suicide note in my head. So far I only have seven lines. Seven lines of what is to be the end of my life. I suppose the only reason I have taken the time to post this, is for purely selfish reasons, I am sure. But I would just like to be able to imagine that there ARE intelligent people out in the world that will be able to read my story, and hear the words I speak.
So, to the person that has been so kind as to take time away from your life to read my reasons: Hear my words, feel my pain. Because I want nothing more than for you to LEARN from my mistakes.
It all started my senior year of high-school. I was cramming to complete two credits worth of material (because I have always been in poor health, most of my life, and had missed a lot of school.) One day, late february, I had stayed late at school, to finish up a packet. I began to nod off, and — not wanting to fall asleep in the school library — I decided to go on a walk around the school.
My walk was shortened by a familiar face. It was Chris, *name changed* captain of our practically undefeated football team. I hated Chris. I always had. However, I tolerated him. I put up with his incessant constant blitherring of his latest accomplishments. So cliche. Well, I listened to him talk, and after ten minutes of chatter he convinced me to go on a walk with him around the underground track. I reluctantly agreed.
In short, my dear readers; I was raped. Raped and beaten. Dragged into a dark corner, and brutally, violently, mercilessly violated, over, and over again.
I passed out at some point, and when I came to, I was quite alone. Covered in bruises, and my own blood. Scratches along my thighs where he had forced them apart; and oh, how I ached. I had difficulty breathing, for I had a cracked rib. I lay there, alone, in the dark.
Finally, I got up, found all of my clothes, and limped home in the snow. It was around two in the morning by the time my head hit the pillow. But I did not sleep.
It was in those hours before dawn when in my brain began to fester an idea, that was like a cancer. So small, just a spark of recognition, of which overtime, would grow to envelop every crevice of my being.
I never told a soul. Not a word. And I tried — god knows I tried — to return to my schooling, to return to the classes. But the day I returned (after having been mysteriously ill for the past two weeks) I saw HIM. He ran up to me and hugged me, just as he always had. Like it had never happened. It was for show. Because as he pulled me close, he laughed. A cruel, heartless, unfeeling chuckle.
I ran. I ran and ran and ran and when I couldn’t run another step, I vomited all over my shoes.
I discovered only a little while after that incident that I was carrying his child. Empty inside, I decided to quit school. I couldn’t possibly go back. His face on every other poster, his name on every girl’s lips… He was in two of my classes, and I just couldn’t do it.
Twelve years of my life thrown away.
Mid march I miscarried.
In all of this time, my parents had been oblivious. And I — so angry at them for not noticing the bruises, not noticing my lack of school, not realizing that their daughter was troubled (to say the least)– would not tell them. They did not deserve to know.
I developed an eating disorder. I just… Stopped eating. I didn’t feel as if I deserved to eat food. I didn’t deserve anything to make me happy.
So I gave up. On me. On happiness. On life. Oh yes, there were many more things that transpired to have brought me to the point where I wish to take my own life. All which seem too menial to mention here.
I will be gone soon. Drowned. Knifes are too messy. Guns have always terrified me. Hanging is too cliche. But drowning on the other hand; drowning is romantic. Like Ophelia.
I will die. 18 seems so young to die, but I feel so old.
I am nearly finished with my suicide note, but when I am, all of this will be quite insignificant. Here is what I have:
Once upon a time, there was a wonderful girl,
Whose beauty and love lit up the whole world.
But behind her soft eyes, was a secret within,
And a heart too exhausted from keeping it in.
No one saw her hurting, ’cause she hid it far too well,
And no one notice that for her, everyday was hell.
‘Neath long sleeves of cotton, she his her blue skin,
That’d been stained with a fist of her own dirty sin.
With flashes in her memory, every single night,
Branded into mind and flesh, fills her soul with fright.
‘To whom it may concern’ was the letter never writ,
And with silent pleas unnoticed, with a broken heart she quit.
In the end she crumbled, and to the rest I cannot say.
Goodbye to all her kindness, as her pensive thoughts decay.
… This note will be my final piece. May God allow it to grow into the hearts of others, to live there.
My story is over. But yours is just beginning.