Pain, loneliness and betrayal was all she knew. She was only sixteen years old and there were times she felt as if she were sixty. She searched deeply for love and companionship but could never find it. She feared her days were coming to an end, but the scariest part was, her instincts were right. Death was on it’s way.
She stood in hallway by her locker, getting her books for class. Clad all in black, she slowly began walking towards the history class room. ‘Another day of pretending,’ she told herself, stepping into the classroom and taking her seat. It seemed the class took forever. She wrote poetry and sketched all class and the teacher didn’t even look at her.
She was relatively smart, always had her assignments in on time. Most classes were in the eighty range or higher so school wasn’t a big issue. The teachers seemed to like her, always thinking things were fine and that she lived a happy, normal life as every other teenager does. They were wrong.
Her name was Bekah. She had lived in Québec ever since she was born and she hated it. She hated her highschool, her town, her home, everything.
Being in her own home gave her this tragic feeling of misplace. She constantly felt that no matter what she did her family would never accept her for who she was.
Her family was broken. The term broken home definately fit this family well. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother had money problems, her sister was hearing impaired and her brother was abusive. Wasn’t this the life?
Friends. Something she didn’t have. Occaisonally she would talk to someone at school. Ask if she’d missed notes or homework but that was it. She walked quietly around, trying to hide her prescence as much as possible. Her brother had taught her that. He had always told her that if he didn’t know she was there, he wouldn’t hurt her. She grew up this way and eventually learned to deal with it.
School seemed to have dragged on forever that day. Finally, the three o’clock bell rang and she headed out to the bus. She took her usual seat and got out her discman. She put her favorite Linkin Park album in and turned her body away from society.
The bus ride home was extremely long and tedious. People always teased her no matter where she was, the bus was no exception. They taunted her, threw things at her, called her names. It had went on for almost two years and she was used to it by now.
Finally, the bus stopped at her gate way. She slowly stepped off and began to walk up her driveway. Her music still blaring in her ears, she noticed her parent’s cars were not home. Working late and at the bar she guessed.
She fumbled with her keys. She unlocked the door and stepped in. Kicking off her boots, she walked upstairs to her bedroom. She shut her music off, threw her bookbag on her bed and shut her door. The button blinked on her anwsering machine.
She sighed. A long, flat, expressionless sigh. She clicked the button on her anwsering machine. Anger begin to bubble in her blood, turning it as hot as lava. Prank calls. Profanaties screamed at her from the speaker. The words, bitch, slut, whore, skank poured out at her. Violently, she picked the anwsering machine and threw it against the door. Plastic shattered. Pieces flew all over her room.
Thoughts raced through her mind. She was sick of the torment, the pain, the anarchy in her own home, everything. It was killing her. Eating at her. Making her scream at night. Making her wake up in cold sweats.
The threats that people uttered to her because she was different. Everything. She hated it.
Walking to her door she locked it. Tears stung at the back of her eyes like the blood that stung her arms when she would drag the razor blade across her skin.
Digging into her backpack, she pulled out her black note pad. Turning it opened to the next blank page she neatly wrote four words.
“Not Good Enough…Good-bye.”
Pulling a box out from under her bed she opened it, retrieving a razor blade. Picking at her skin she began to slice at her wrist. Anger was bubbling inside her and it wouldn’t stop. She begam to scream. To yell. Her life was over. This was the end. Cutting faster and with more adrenaline she cut deeper and deeper. Blood poured out of her like a river flowing down a hillside. She screamed out in agony and pain even though she knew this was where she began. Dead. Alone. Fuck this world. She needed to be alone, where she couldn’t be taunted and teased.
Her parents returned home at six o’clock that night. They found their daughter dead at eight o’clock the next morning when she didn’t go downstairs for school. It took them almost a day to find her. She knew they never cared.