Hater

(This story is written by taking aspects of some of my mates lives and my own and infuses them togther to create something i hope atleast is good enough for some good feedback. I would like constructive critiscm but if your just going to say i hate it, or along those lines just don't review..... ok thanks now on with the story)

Chapter 1

The paraphernalia was already set up when she stumbled into her bedroom, tired of living in a reality that wasn't her own she found a visible vein and lined the needle up. It was almost instinct now; she wasn't addicted by any stretches well that is what she thought anyway. It was actually her godfather that firstly got her hooked on the stuff. It had always started off with the lighter stuff like pot. But 6 months down the line and she was already onto heroine, everyone had said she'd get bored of pot quickly except her. She still thought she had it all under control. It was obvious to her parents that she hadn't. She let the needle pierce her skin and savouring the pain and adrenaline as it ran through her veins making her body shake with anticipation of what was about to happen. Her hand did not quiver as she injected the drug. The effects like always were almost instantaneous. She did regret taking them to begin with. No one would believe that she used to hate drugs, smoking and all that stuff. She felt like a hypocrite now when she told people not to smoke or drink but she didn't touch either of these two. She just had to go for the most intoxicating option, the most lethal, the most dangerous, and the hardest to quit.

The come down as usual was violent, upping the dosage everyday seemed to have an opposite effect to what she had intended but she wasn't in the mood today. Her whole body was pounding and her head was worst. She glanced at her alarm, which read 2 am Saturday. She was happy it was the weekend, 2 choices get high all weekend or go for a bit of a walk 2 the bridge where she wrote and sung and drew whatever she wanted. The first option was always the most tempting but still coming down from the night before she thought she had better choose the second. She wasn't dumb. She then checked her paraphernalia, which was meant to be put away that night. As usual it was, not neatly to tell you the truth she had never been good at the whole packing away deal. By 2:30 she was ready to leave. Her family were asleep so she crept out via the upstairs window leaving a note on her pillow explaining to her mum where she was. Packing the few things she needed like a pen, pencil and paper her mp3 was always in her pocket of the long leather jacket that her mum had bought her for her birthday the week before.

Being careful not to wake the baby she slid her slim body over the window frame and hanging from the windowsill she let herself drop onto the terracing that ran the full length of the house even reaching her room, which was in the attic. As her body lowered itself onto the steps she let her mind go. It took her 5 minutes to reach the ground and as her feet hit the concrete she started to run. A whole 20 minutes later she arrived on the bridge over looking the main road. She stopped for a while staring into the lights of the oncoming traffic letting her breath catch up with her. It wasn't until a traffic warden came over to her 30 minutes later that she awoke from her trance. The usual question were asked "why are you here", "do your parents know where you are" and are you thinking of committing suicide" She answered yes to all these questions and just as the warden started to walk away something clicked and she came back over. She stared into her eyes and said clearly " NO I'm not thinking of killing myself" this seemed to please the warden as she then walked off perfectly happy leaving a 15 year old alone on a bridge at 4 am in the morning! She switched on her mp3 and relaxed as she heard Kurt Cobain's raspy voice echo through the headphone. She settled down on the path way took out her notebook and started to write what ever seemed to come into her head at the particular moment.

"Why did I say no, it could have solved my problems, it could be the end to all my worries" She wrote poetry a lot so this line was very familiar starting point for her. She carried it on going into detail about the drugs and the cuts that now scarred deeper on her wrists than before. Many people were scared of her. She was labelled a Goth at school she didn't really care; to her she was a typical Goth, which scared her. No one knew about her drugs and her cutting she preferred to keep that hidden, no one asked abut the puncture marks in her arms the same as she didn't questions the empty pill bottles that lay in the bags of some of the popular kids at school.

The poetry became more and more graphic and lethal her memories poured out of her onto the page forgetting that she was in a public place she started to cry. She cried and cried. No one noticed no one cared.