Damaged Goods

"I'm sorry," I wrote as another tear trailed silently down my pale cheek.

"It wasn't your fault," I wrote underneath. It was all a big lie. I wasn't sorry and it was their fault. I folded the letter neatly and carefully set it at the bottom of my bed.

I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing. I guess I could tell you. I was working on a suicide letter. I have been miserable since birth. We're being evicted on Tuesday. It's currently Thursday evening.

My parents are meth addicts. Our water and electricity has been shut off due to late and unpaid bills. I'm writing my letter by candle light.

I pretty much raised myself, taught myself how to cook, clean and everything else that mattered. At 15 I got my first job at a restaurant. I was the only one even attempting to pay the bills. My parents were too busy making meth in our bathtub.

They weren't abusive. They just didn't care. I was their accident and they didn't want me. All they cared about was getting their next fix.

I'm sick of it and can't take it anymore. I'm just done, with everything. I don't have anyone. At school no one talks to me because I smell and have been wearing the same ripped up, stained, tattered clothing for the past years.

I was just used as a source of income. A way to get more supplies. A way to make more meth. I just wanted out.

I grabbed my recently opened bottle of vodka and took a big chug and threw back a bottles worth of meds down my throat. I washed the pills down with more vodka and eventually finished off the bottle.

"I will not fail," I said to myself before. I made sure the note was still visible and laid down under my blankets and let darkness take over.