I wrote this during one of my worst bouts of unhappiness as of yet. I feel a little bit better now, but those ‘moods’ still show up from time to time. Sorry ‘bout it being so goddamn depressing, but that’s how I felt writing it. Actually, it helped a bit. Made me feel not 100% awful. Fiction: almost my version of a diary. Ok, now that you’ve decided that I’m absolutely crazy, go on and read the story. Prove your theories correct. *happy smile* No calling the white-coated men on me, ok? Please R/R?

"I can still remember happy."

"I used to be happy, way back a long time ago. I had friends, great friends. We were happy. Truly happy. Back in fifth grade, life was still good. Recess was fun, I was still praised for my creativity, and the biggest worry on my mind was whether or not we could get to the foursquare court with a ball in time. There were bullies, yes, but they were the ones that picked on everybody, so it wasn't so bad." The girl looked down at her hands, and sighed. "That was before I learned what it was to be truly unhappy."

"Middle school. It was actually hell on earth. The first day, I found out that I had pretty much lost all my friends to other schools. And the bullies started picking on me alone." She let another sigh, remembering it all. All the times she'd been beat up, all the times she had gotten in trouble because of something somebody had said she'd said. The teasing, the fights. She shook her head to rid it of memory.

"The teachers and the staff had an unwritten rule. 'It's easier to punish the one victim, than it is to punish the twenty culprits.' Meaning I was always getting in trouble, and the kids who had beaten me up, or the kids who had stole my stuff, got off scott-free. Some times I actually thought that maybe the teachers had it in for me, too. Just like the students. I can still remember going home every day, crying my eyes out." She wiped away a small tear forming at the corner of her eye from the painful memory. She sighed, and started talking again.

"Eighth grade was a little better, because I finally had friends again, but then the shit at home started. Yelled at for pretty much every thing I ever did. And my imagination was slowly going, in other people's eyes, from an amazing gift, to something that just got in the way of important things. Life just seemed to get worse with each passing day." She sighed, the biggest one yet. The tears stopped, replaced by a hard look.

"Now ninth grade, that was *fun*. High school was horrible. I knew nobody, my friends were starting to drift away from me, and the teachers really started disliking me. I never got in trouble, but only because I never did pretty much anything. Kept my mouth shut. My clothes started to get darker, with me wearing nothing but navy blue, hunter green, and black. Only a month into high school, I started getting a mental problem. Indifference. Not just 'Oh, I kinda don't care' indifference, but 'Not a thing I care about, life included' indifference. Everything bored me. Even my favorite things were dull to me. So I broke open a razor, yelling things like 'Maybe death'll be different,' and cursing God for making me this way. The blade stung, but never went very deep. After my parents had found out, they promised to get me help, which they never did." She looked down at her wrists, or more, the scars on her wrists. She sighed, and started talking again.

"I got mono sometime around March, which got me out of school for a little while. I never went back. I was home schooled for a year, in which I did almost no work, and my parents didn't care. Then that new school opened. It was called a charter school, and you did all your work on computers, working at your own pace. My mother enrolled me, and I did well the first few months. Then it started again. Hell. Down to the last few things I had to do to graduate, my father decided that if I didn't do homework every single second, that I would never graduate. So he took it upon himself to lecture me every time he saw me doing anything but sleeping or doing homework. My friends didn't matter. I wasn't allowed to have fun, ever. That was when I snapped. I was sick of everything. I broke down, crying like an infant. Then I went to the kitchen, and got something to make it all better." She stopped talking, and looked at the large knife she held in her hand. The sharp blade glinted the light from the ceiling fixture, making patterns on the wall with light. She smiled, almost gleefully, at the sharp butcher knife she held in her hands. "All better."

She glanced down at the note she had written, before she had started talking to herself. 'Life sucked, so I left' it said. She had figured, simple was good. She took the knife and placed its tip on her wrist, putting pressure on it. She pushed until a bright red spot of blood appeared, and she kept on pushing. The blood poured more heavily, flowing from her veins her very life force. She just smiled at the pain.

She looked down at her handiwork. Two long gashes down her forearms, blood flowing heavily still. The girl started feeling weak then. Dizzy, a little nauseous. But she felt no fear.

The last words out of her mouth, before passing out to join the others no longer living, were "Thank you." She had finally escaped.