“You said you’d love me til’ the day I died,” I said with a sad tone, breaking the silence.
“But what would happen if I died tomorrow? Would I turn into a faded memory, and be forgotten?” I said continuing, a twinge of regret in my voice. I was careful with my words, scared to run him away with my sick, twisted, suicidal illness. My hands were quavering on the 9mm handgun behind my back.
Adam let out a sigh of frustration, and put his head in his hands. I could tell he was thinking over the right things to say in his head. He looked at a loss for words. My hand tightened it’s grip, as he opened his mouth to speak.
“I undoubtedly did love you, but those feelings got worn down over time with the way our relationship went. I don't blame you at all for what happened, but think it was one of those things where we drifted apart for all sorts of reasons, including your illness, and the pressure of supporting you through your various... problems.” He said hesitating on the last word. The words came out like a jumbled mess, and took a while for my fragile mind to sort out.
I stared at him, shocked. His grief stricken face looked up at me, and his cold blue eyes stared right through me. My world had just come to an end.
I slowly lifted the gun to my heart, making sure he was watching. His eyes followed my hand, causing him to stare in horror. A single tear rolled down both his, and mine. I pulled the trigger.
I woke up screaming with sweat dripping down my forehead. The same I always do when I wake up in the morning. It’s been at least two years since I attempted suicide on November 13, 2007. I aimed a bit too low with the gun, and missed my heart, only chipping a rib. I had surgery to get the bullet removed, not suffering any serious damage. I was locked away in an asylum for quite a while. I was put in isolation quite a number of times for trying to cut myself with the broken plastic knifes. Lets just say I was a bit beyond desperate. That, and getting in fights. My “special helper” as my 5 year old sister puts it, says I need to write in this every day, and write about my dreams. Well considering I have that same dream over and over again, that won’t be too hard. They say it will help the doctors pin point exactly what’s wrong with me. I think it’s a load of s**t. So here I am, 16 years old, and writing in a lame a** diary. Yeah. This makes me feel a hell of a lot better.
I put down my pen and sighed. They call that therapy? I call that middle school lame assness. My chemically destroyed black hair whipped me in the face as I rolled off the side of my bed, taking my glow in the dark Jack Skellington sheets with me. My “special helper” also said that all things dark promotes depression, so it’d be best getting rid of all of it. Also meaning going back to my original blonde. I’m beyond the point of return as far as hair colors. I’m staying with the black. I hid my diary in my tampon box, in fear that my 11 year old brother would read it.
I looked at the recent family photo sitting on my night stand, also suggested by guess-who! Your typical perfect image family. That is, until you look at the unwanted emo kid in the background. My parents and siblings: blonde hair blue eyes, blonde hair blue eyes, blonde hair blue eyes, blonde hair blue eyes. Unwanted emo kid in the background: black hair brown eyes. We all had matching white clothes. They all looked so angelic, while I looked like a vampire, thrust awkwardly into white clothing.
I got ready for any other Sunday. Church was an everyday thing since my little... accident. I put on my nice dress shirt, and brown eyeliner. My mom replaced my usual black with it. I still put on my regular blood red lipstick. Pink just isn’t my color.
“Sage We’re leaving Hurry up and get in the car. You better be wearing that cross necklace when I see you.” My mother called from downstairs, probably putting on Madeline’s shoes for her. Spoiled brat. I love her though. Anybody who is in love with Hello Kitty is cool in my book. I frantically looked for the necklace that I “misplaced”.
I hurried out the door after I found it, “accidentally” kicking our Golden Retriever, Rex, on my way out. God I hate that dog.
I’m not gonna lie, my therapist is pretty hot for a 34 year old. Long brown hair, amazing green eyes. Out side of me and my pity problems I’d say she sleeps around. I’m just glad she’s not a blonde. I’m up to my neck in blonde minions. Trying to get me to go to the happy side. Well I’m pretty ******** gay if that counts for anything.
“So what happened with you and your boyfriend? What caused you to feel that way?” That hit a soft spot.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I stated quietly, staring mindlessly at my scuffed up converse. A lump gathered in my throat, and tears started to welled up. I had only been there for 10 minutes, and she’s already got me crying. Usually it takes about half an hour.
Never cry. Adam used to always say. It lets people see your weak spots. It really shows how much of an affect he had on me, considering I spent half my days crying my eyes out. Still do. I heard my mom shift uncomfortably in the chair next to me.
“I think that’ll be it for today, thank you very much.” She stated protectively, getting up from her chair, her pink blouse snagging on it. I wasn’t buying the whole fake caring thing. Her face turned pink in embarrassment of me crying, and her tone was a little too high and squeaky. That’s her lying voice. I’m glad I didn’t inherit that. Sherry, my therapist, looked like a disappointed little kid. We left without another word.
I ran in my room and slammed my door. I hesitantly walked over to by bunny’s cage. He was a gift from Adam. A “get well” gift. In other words, “Why’d they let you out of the nut hut?” The smell of fresh pine filled my nostrils as I picked him up out of the cage. The metal made a loud banging noise when it closed. I was going to get yelled at for that later. I plopped myself on my bed and snuggled my white bunny close.
“ Bunnicula, why are you and I the only non-perfect people in this world?” I asked, it’s beady red eyes staring at me. Bunnicula had one ear that was shorter than the other. It made him unique though. I felt a pile of clothes randomly thrown at me. I saw a plaid skirt, black button down shirt, and knee high socks. You know what that means.
“ALL GIRLS PRIVATE SCHOOL?” I jumped up and down on my bed, my hair flying everywhere. So THESE are the perks of being suicidal! All right! That’s what I’m talking about. “You start tomorrow.” My dad sighed closing my door reluctantly. He’s just jealous that he doesn’t get to go. The sneer on his face told me so.