Rolling around in a wheel chair is fun if you don't actually have to be in one. My

My name is David and I'm fourteen years old, I used to think it was fun, I don't anymore.

I live in Kansas City, Missouri with my Mom, my sister Erika, and my Grandma

Rose. About three years ago during an awful blizzard, my family was driving home from

my Aunt and Uncle's house, we hit a patch of black ice and slid into oncoming traffic.

Our car flipped three times and got hit by two other cars. Luckily Mom and Erika walked

away with only bruises and cuts. Dad and I on the other hand weren't so lucky. I

broke both of my legs and part of my lower spine, Dad hit his head many times and was

knocked unconscious. We were both rushed to the hospital. He was in much worse

condition then I, but the fact that I was only eleven attracted everyone's attention.

Doctors were working extremely hard on my spine and legs, but they hardly even looked

at Dad's head. He was in a coma with an eighty-five percent chance of dying, I was in a

full body cast with a seventy percent chance of never walking again. My never walking

again seemed to take everyone's focus even though Dad was basically on his death bed.

At the time it didn't bother me that I was getting all of the attention, but now thinking

back I feel so guilty. I can't help but think, what if they gave him the attention he needed,

maybe, just maybe, he'd still be alive. I know that it's not my fault that we got in a car

crash or that he was in a coma, but I still feel like I contributed to his death somehow. For

the past two years since they pronounced him dead, it's been eating away at me on the

inside. I have flashbacks of the accident and nightmares that it was my fault that he was

dead. They were really bad and frequent for the first few months after the accident, but

then they went away almost completely for almost two years. Then one night he had it,

the same dream he had the first few months after the accident. Dad's head is cracked in

two and I have a paper cut. Everyone is paying attention and caring for my paper cut, but

nobody is tending to Dad's broken skull. In the dream Dad dies and then everyone in the

hospital chases me around screaming " It's all your fault". This dream just kept coming

back every night after not having it for two years. I was miserable, my anxiety went back

up and I had to start taking my crazy pills again, but this time they never seemed to work.

I became addicted, if I didn't have my pills I would go crazy, I'd scream and shake

uncontrollably. My mother became worried so she brought me to a shrink. For a few

months I had an appointment every week. The first few sessions really helped me, but my

guilt overpowered me and took over my body. I started to secretly take the pills again

I found where my mom kept my old ones hidden and I took them all back and had a

hidden stash in my room. You're only supposed to take two, but two never felt like

enough so I would pop a third one and it felt better than two, but still not good enough

for me so I would pop a fourth and a fifth and finally after the sixth I'd feel better.

Popping six pills a day made my inventory of pills very small so I hatched up a plan. The

next day I went into the pharmacy, I went into one aisle and knocked the shelf down. The

workers all ran to that aisle so that was my chance to go steal my pills I grabbed two

bottles containing fifty pills each, I put them under my shirt and rolled out of the store.

With my addiction came other changes like really mood swings, one moment I'd be fine

but then the next moment I'd be in an extremely foul mood. My grades started to slip and

I started to lose friends, but I didn't care, just as long as I had my pills that was good

enough for me. My family was confused why this was happening, they had no idea that I

was taking my pills again. They did so many things to try to put me back on track, but

nothing worked. Whenever I would run out of pills I'd go steal more. The longer and

longer I took them, the more I needed them. Soon six a day wasn't enough it grew to

seven, then eight, then nine. I always needed more. One day when I went to the

pharmacy to steal some I did the same thing that I always did, but this time I wasn't

able to roll away fast enough and they saw something under my shirt, I was caught. It's

kind of sad that a teen in a wheel chair has stolen from this like ten times, but they didn't

catch him until now, that's saying a lot about their security. Anyways I was brought to

the jail house and they called my mom. They explained to her what happened, we paid a

fine, and we went home. That same night my mom raided my room and found my stash,

immediately she brought me to a rehab center. At that point I was popping about twelve

pills a day, deadly. Mom checked me in and left right away. I went crazy, not only did I

not have my pills or my sanity, but then I realized that I basically did not have a family,

by her leaving like that I could tell that she wanted nothing to do with me. So here I am

right now writing this all down, my whole life story for the past three years. I have been

here for the past month and I have been clean the whole time, the first two weeks were

miserable but after that I found that I didn't need the pill, but I later realized that the pills

made the guilt go away, but now that I'm off the pills, the guilt is back. Every night it

gets worse and worse. My nightmares are longer bloodier, and more scarring. This guilt

in my body keeps building up, I know that I couldn't help Dad, but still I feel like it's my

fault. Three years after it happened and it's still haunting me, right now I just realized that

this guilt is never going to go away, I'm going to be miserable for the rest of my life, so I

might as well just throw in the towel right now give up my battle, my battle against my

own guilt. I'm dying on the inside and I wish I was dying on the outside this guilt has

been driving me crazy for too long. I now know that the only was to stop the guilt is to

apologize to you in person and there's only one way to do that. I am here right now

writing my last words, I stole a jump rope from the rehab's gym and it is now tied around

my neck and all I have to do is slide off my wheel chair so I'm just dangling there. Just

know that in about a few minutes after this next period I will be up in heaven

apologizing to my father in person, I will be free of guilt, this next punctuation mark

resembles my life, a regular period ends a sentence, but this period resembles my life,

now here it is, the period, the end of a sentence, the end of my life.