I hate my life. Always have. I've learned from the very beginning not to take life seriously. Now, 17 and a half years later, I still believe it. I've never had a reason to like life. Always just kinda sat around waiting for it to end. Now I'm just impatient, and I'm so ready to just end it on my own.
As I switch the safety from the on to off, on the gun I'm holding, the quiet click... click is enough to keep me calm. What would it be like to die? Peaceful, maybe. I'd finally be alone. Nobody to laugh at me and whisper "freak" when I walk passed them in the hallway at school.
No immature guys starting rumors about me being, "Just like my mom." Oh, the solitude I would gain. I wonder what people would think... Wait, they wouldn't care. Nobody cares about me. My throat tightens as I think these things, but I ignore it and slowly bring the gun to my temple. I take a deep breath to steady my hand. One... two... three.
Teenage girl tells her story...
They say that the moment before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. It's true. When my finger began to pull the trigger, my whole life played right out like a 3D movie. Starting with my birth.
My mom was a prostitute. She had been pregnant before me, but opted for an abortion because she didn't want to ruin her career at the nightclubs. And besides that, she was "Too young to have kids". This quote is apparently something my mother said, according to my Aunt Jenn, who is two years younger than my mom and had 3 kids by the time she was 20, with three different guys. Needless to say, I didn't have the best role models growing up.
Anyway, when my mom got pregnant with me (at age 22), it was amidst a burst of friendliness as she was "working" (If you'd call what she did a job). Her and my dad hooked up for a night, but after that he became a regular customer. Once the other guys found out that mom fancied dad, they kinda backed off. As her pregnancy progressed (I have no idea why she didn't kill me like she did my brother or sister), she stopped working as often, and eventually stopped all together. Her and dad continued to go out, and despite being pregnant, they went out for drinks, and parties (dad drank a lot). Once I was born though, they kinda separated. Maybe I was a really ugly baby or cried too much. Whatever it was, they began to fight a lot and throw things. Often with me in the middle of it. Dad left, and moved back to his old apartment, with joined custody of me.
I don't remember much about my baby years, I just know what Aunt Jenn has told me. When I was only two months old, mom began working again. She was always really thin, like a model, and managed to get rid of her "baby fat" quickly. So, even after just having me, she still looked gorgeous. She started working at the nightclubs again, and would either leave me at Aunt Jenn's house or alone in my crib all night. Thinking back on it now, I'm pretty sure I was better off alone. When I was a baby, Aunt Jenn had already had her 3 kids. Her youngest is about the same age as me. The two older ones liked to torture me. The oldest ones name is Benny and he is really mean to me. He was 6 when I was born, and definitely reminded me that he was "Superior". The next oldest one is Sarah. She was a little nicer to me, but if Benny told her to do something, she would do it. Didn't matter what it was, she'd do it. The youngest one, the one my age, was called Joey. We got along really well, mostly because his siblings terrorized him as much as they did me. So, anyway, Aunt Jenn was single the same time that mom started working again, which meant that there were random men at her house at least every other night. Her kids didn't like the men anymore than I did. Some of the men were pretty rough and didn't give a shit about kids, often hitting my cousins and me if we even made the slightest sound when they were around.
My days alone were a lot better except that I didn't get the attention I needed when I needed my diaper changed, or wanted to get out, or was hungry. But, even as a baby I learned that people weren't trustworthy. I went to my dad's house every other weekend. The visits weren't long; only two days, and one night. The rest of my time was with mom (or Aunt Jenn). When I was a year old, I was with my dad and I really, really, wanted to get out of my crib. I started crying of course. How else was I gonna get his attention? I couldn't talk! Well, Dad didn't like me crying too much, especially during his TV time, which did I mention is 24/7? So, he just comes right over and starts yelling at me as if I could understand every word he was saying. When I didn't stop, he hit me upside the head. I don't think I've cried since that day. If I ever got hurt, I'd just clench my teeth, and tough it out. As a baby I began to build a wall around my heart and feelings. I began to hate everything and everyone. Didn't matter who it was, or how nice they were. As a little kid, I didn't want to live. I wished I was dead, almost everyday. I learned not to care. I was becoming an angry person. One who would have a lot of problems in the future, thought at that time, I didn't know it.