Blue Sunflowers

I lay on my bed staring at my band poster clad ceiling. John Lennon and Kurt Cobain stared back at me, ever beautiful.

They were always my fucking heroes, man. They had so much in common, and yet they were such different people but I always identified with them. John Lennon was always in trouble because he was sick and fucking bored of everyone and everything around him, so he went and did some bad shit. But he learned from it, that one time he almost killed a man in a fist fight. He realized he was doing something wrong and became an icon for peace. You know, he was always misunderstood.

He never gave a shit if he was a freak because he was damn fucking proud of it, they’d stare and he’d say “Suck it.”

Now Kurt is seen as an icon for my generation or maybe my sister’s, whatever . He’s seen as an icon for youth and rebellion, for the angsty misunderstood teens of our time. He was seen as a depressed soul, someone to take pity on, but was actually a little sassy bitch. Sound familiar?

They saved my life when I was at my worst – right before moving to Jersey. I was going to do it. I had the noose and the note ready. Kurt had died exactly a year before and I was going to celebrate. I hadn’t really been myself for a while; I was just kind of dead inside. A zombie. I had no soul and no will to live.

I made sure everyone was out of the house and locked myself in my room. Just as I had set up the rope, having attached it to my desk chair, the rope swung past the radio and somehow – don’t ask me how – turned on my stereo and “Here Comes the Sun” was playing. I thought it meant something and I instantly regretted everything. I tried to work out of the noose but ended up tightening and I had to cut myself out of it. I ended up with cuts all over that no one ever noticed and a sore throat from screams no one ever heard.

I cried that night - the only emotion I’d shown in a while – I cried my fucking life out. But they were happy tears.

I knew the radio was telling me something. I knew things would get better but I had to stop all that suicidal shit. It was hard – fuck yeah – but I knew it would be. Then I moved here, I mean, yeah, my “family” was still with me, but I had a gang of friends, a real fucking family for once. People who cared about me like I cared about them. The love was finally fucking reciprocated.

I sighed, I don’t like to think about those times, but I knew I had to do so to avoid going back. And there was no fucking way I think I could make it out alive the second time around. I was lucky, but most never are. The sun came for me.

They never knew though, and they still thought I was fucked up. They didn’t know half of it. They were the happy family, with the two perfect children. The oldest – who was the first to accomplish anything, ever – and the youngest – the baby, the adorable fucking baby. Then, they had the fucking weirdo in the middle. The weirdo with headphones over her ears all the time because she totally wanted to go deaf, not because she wanted to drown out the bullshit around her, the freak who dressed in black in Miami because she liked to sweat, not because she wanted to fucking disappear. The goth chick who listened to dead people’s music because she was too fucking cool for mainstream music.

How wrong they were.

They’d only been here a couple hours at most and they already irritating me. First they’d thought it’d be cute to shove Sophie in with me.

Now let me tell you something, that child is fucking retarded. The girl is sixteen but has the mental capacity of a ten year old. It’s not like she ever felt the need to grow up, she was always the baby, she always had everything done for her, and it was always fucking fine. She would every little thing on me and of course she’d be right, she’s the motherfucking baby!

As if they needed help, she would tell my parents shit about me, just feed their fucking minds.
She always thought everything I liked was complete and utter bullshit because she liked the hip stuff. When I had to share a room with her, she would make my life a living hell – and boy, did she mean it. She was completely unaware of my deep-seated hatred for here even though I clearly voiced it every three seconds. That is, when I absolutely had to speak to her. She was convinced I was a fucking mute.

Because she’s a stupid ass.

And my parents would always ground me for stupid things; because “I talked back to them, because I didn’t have perfect grades, for disrespecting my sisters”. But I would never respond, I just didn’t care at that point. I was the fucking push-over. In my head, I was just waiting for the snap of my fucking neck. Nothing was worth this hell.

Then – music.