Um, okay, this is just an angsty little thing I wrote when I was depressed and slightly suicidal. That's the explanation for writing something so un-me. Hope you all like though.
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You Don't Know Me
By: GoldenRed Phoenix
"You don't know me. You never did. You see and tease me every day, but you still don't know me. You may know my name, yes, but what is a name? A title. A signature. Nothing more. You don't know my likes and dislikes, my secrets. It's just a name. A name can't tell you anything. And yet, you still laugh at me for mine. A name is but a word. Why is mine so funny you must laugh at me for it? Are not your names strange as well?
"You look at me. What do you see? A face, perhaps adorned with an expression. You can't tell what I'm thinking, what I'm like, from a mere look. Who are you to think you are? You are not all-knowing. No human is. And yet, you look at me, and I can see you judge me in that one look. I ask you again. Whom do you think you are?
"More important than you, some of you will say, voices laden with scorn. Who are you to judge importance? We are all equal. Why do you say you are better? Because you need to feel superior and self-assured? And you do that by laughing at people like me? What kind of person ARE you? Not a good one, that's for sure. Equal to others, yes, but equality and good and bad are not the same.
"Chink, some of you call me. Perhaps you should go join a White Supremacist group, I'm sure they'd be happy to have you
"Freak. Loser. They are insults I hear regularly. Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me. What a stupid phrase. What a lie. Names, insults hurt, more so than pain. Pain is purely physical. You get over it. But words are mental and emotional. They leave their mark on you, and you are scarred forever. You never thought of that, did you? It isn't wise to hurt someone else, you don' know what they can do to you. Even now, I could fly into a rage and hurt you. Badly. Maybe even kill you.
"Weakling. There's another insult I hear regularly. Me, weak? In terms of physical strength, perhaps so. But in terms of mental and emotional strength, I'm most definitely the stronger. Do you know what I've had to put up with? No, you don't. You don't even know me. Even the strong have weaknesses. I've had enough."
Ling signed the note and left it on her desk, under a paperweight shaped like a globe. She reached for a dagger, long, thin, and dagger-like. Quietly, she slipped to the washroom and locked the door. No point in dirtying the carpet.
Opening a cupboard behind the mirror, she grabbed the sleeping pills. Quickly, she swallowed about five, four more than she should have. Enough to put her in a coma, if need be. She felt her eyelids beginning to droop, and swiftly, before she could hesitate, she drew the knife across her wrist, slicing a large vein, before falling into a deep sleep. Blood pooled under her still form.
Ling died of blood loss before she woke.
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Yeah . . . what do you think? Please Review and tell me.