A Silent Suicide
TWO
Y'know it was just MY luck to not jump far enough out. I landed in the hedge shrub thingy below me and twisted my ankle. I always have to fuck everything up in some way. Fuck. Second suicide attempt of the day, failed. I must be having bad luck or something.
I got out of the hedge shrub thing and scratched my already throbbing wrist on the thorns. "FUCKK!" I grabbed my arm and pulled out of the bush. Shit. I stumbled into the front door of the shithole I was forced to call home and linped into the kitchen. I rinsed the blood stained off of the knife and tossed it back into the drawr. I decided on just giving up. I mean come on. How many tries does it take? Slit my wrists and jump off the fucking third story roof. AND LIVE. What the fuck. What else could I fucking do? Get run over? No fucking way. Why let someone else have the pleasure of killing the "poor emo kid that wants to die" which I'm not. I'm sick and tired of being called emo and having my parents go along with it and expect me to be perfect and get fucking mad if I'm not.
I tried to move my wrist through the searing pain. I couldn't. Thats not good. It was killing me. I didn't even notice my ankle anymore, except for the fact that it was swelling. I opened the cabinet where my parents kept everyones medications and popped open a container of Vicoden with my left hand. I swallowed and handful and thought to myself, watch these not work. With my luck it'll make me feel worse.
I thought too soon. It did make me feel worse. How does that even happen? Popping like 12 or 13 pills and feel WORSE?? Something must be wrong with me. I laid in pain on the old plaid patterned couch my parents have had since like before couches were even invented practially. The pain in my wrist had steadily gotten worse over the past hour. I mean i didn't even have enough strength to grab the remote and turn on the tv. Pain sucks.
I glanced at the clock across the living room. Fuck. Two thirty. My mom would be getting home from work soon, and if she saw me like this she'd kill me. I mean I might stain her couch. Now, I could barely move my fingers on my right hand, but it still hurt like fuck.
I struggled to get up from my comfy position on th couch and staggered like a drunk over to the staircase to get up to my room. I slowly made my way up the long and seemingly neverending staircase and down the hall into my room to put on a shirt that covered the cut on my wrist. Well, not because my mom would see. Shes never noticed before. I mean shes a fucking therapist forgods sake that specializes in manic depressive kids. And of course she'd never notice her own child might just by chance be one of those kids that she sees three days a week. Nope, never.
I got out of the hedge shrub thing and scratched my already throbbing wrist on the thorns. "FUCKK!" I grabbed my arm and pulled out of the bush. Shit. I stumbled into the front door of the shithole I was forced to call home and linped into the kitchen. I rinsed the blood stained off of the knife and tossed it back into the drawr. I decided on just giving up. I mean come on. How many tries does it take? Slit my wrists and jump off the fucking third story roof. AND LIVE. What the fuck. What else could I fucking do? Get run over? No fucking way. Why let someone else have the pleasure of killing the "poor emo kid that wants to die" which I'm not. I'm sick and tired of being called emo and having my parents go along with it and expect me to be perfect and get fucking mad if I'm not.
I tried to move my wrist through the searing pain. I couldn't. Thats not good. It was killing me. I didn't even notice my ankle anymore, except for the fact that it was swelling. I opened the cabinet where my parents kept everyones medications and popped open a container of Vicoden with my left hand. I swallowed and handful and thought to myself, watch these not work. With my luck it'll make me feel worse.
I thought too soon. It did make me feel worse. How does that even happen? Popping like 12 or 13 pills and feel WORSE?? Something must be wrong with me. I laid in pain on the old plaid patterned couch my parents have had since like before couches were even invented practially. The pain in my wrist had steadily gotten worse over the past hour. I mean i didn't even have enough strength to grab the remote and turn on the tv. Pain sucks.
I glanced at the clock across the living room. Fuck. Two thirty. My mom would be getting home from work soon, and if she saw me like this she'd kill me. I mean I might stain her couch. Now, I could barely move my fingers on my right hand, but it still hurt like fuck.
I struggled to get up from my comfy position on th couch and staggered like a drunk over to the staircase to get up to my room. I slowly made my way up the long and seemingly neverending staircase and down the hall into my room to put on a shirt that covered the cut on my wrist. Well, not because my mom would see. Shes never noticed before. I mean shes a fucking therapist forgods sake that specializes in manic depressive kids. And of course she'd never notice her own child might just by chance be one of those kids that she sees three days a week. Nope, never.