You never realize how disgusting your writing can be until you look back on it months later, without any memories about the words that have turned into the massive piles of rubbish over time.
I'm currently doing this now, looking over the mess of letters on the pages document on my laptop. Looking at the unfinished "stories," I can't imagine what I must have been on in order to form such monstrosities. It horrifies me to think that at one point in time, I thought that those stories were worth something. All of the them were basically the same plot, but manipulated slightly with different character names for each rotten tale.
Each story would be about a best friend that falls for the other, and what would occur later as the "plot" would move along, but in all reality, go nowhere for days. I can't imagine how I could have possibly written those without blowing my brains out.
That actually explains why I haven't written a story for months- I've been feel more depressed then usual, and if I were to look at those ghastly documents that I refuse to even call fables, I would have gone into one of my sperm donators trailer, taken one of his many guns, and would have sent one of the bullets into my skull.
Thinking about it, it's more likely that I haven't been writing stories recently because I've been writing songs instead, even though I've been writing less in general for months. I've been declining in my ability to write, because I haven't had time for reading, and my high level of reading was what made my writing ability superior to others of my age group.
That was back in eighth grade, and even freshman year. Now that it's the end of my sophomore year, my ability to write has gone down from practically college level to normal high school, and I cannot take it. I am accustomed to writing brilliant pieces that make people want me to publish my works and retire by the time I'm twenty. At the rate I'm going, I won't get back to my previous level of writing until I'm out of college, and I refuse to wait that long to get back to my previous ability.
And now is the time that I would start to think about suicide if I were alone. Instead, I'm next to whom I used to believe was the love of my life. My best friend. The person I used to write all of those monstrosities about.
Now, I don't' know how I feel. I've been thinking about my ex more, and I don't think I'm in love with the bloke. I may be, but I surely hope not. When I was with him, my self harm rate went up by fifty percent, and my suicidal thoughts rate went up by thirty percent.
I couldn't get back with him even if I tried. He's moved on, and I don't like it. I like being the one he pines after, the one he wants to be with. I am a selfish person, and I hate it, but I also hate feeling so goddamn worthless.
That's all that I really am- worthless. I am not of any good use towards anyone that I know. Everyone would be better off if I were dead, but I'm not going to kill myself, because I am to cowardly to actually try to do so. I am such a coward, and I hate myself for it, although I hate myself for about everything that I've ever done.
I drop the pen, stretching my cramping fingers and wincing at the thoughts racing through my muddled mind. I'm really starting to think about suicide again, and I know that I can't. I'm next to her, and we're going to bed, and it's not right to be wanting to off yourself when she's around.
We get settled into our sleeping bags, and I wait the twenty minutes it takes her to fall asleep before I venture off downstairs where I know that not ever her grandparents would be at this ungodly hour.
My first thought is pills, but I start to think about the vomiting, and the shaking, and the screaming, and if I made it out alive, how she'd never forgive me for trying to kill myself for the first time that she's know of. It'd be my fourth time attempting death.
Instead, I go for the knives in the kitchen drawers, grabbing a large, slightly rusty knife and slitting each wrist three times horizontally. I won't bleed out, but it feels good to feel something. I hold my battered wrists over the kitchen sink, letting the blood run so I won't have too much to clean up.
I then slit once up each forearm vertically, letting myself bleed out faster, and faster, and faster, until I almost pass out. When that happens, I decide to go out into her grassy backyard, so I take a kitchen rag, wrap my bloody arms, and open her glass sliding back door as quietly as I can. Her sisters attack bird starts cawing in the parrot cage in the living room, alarming the entire house to the fact that I'm escaping from life.
I manage to stumble about twenty feet into the back yard before I collapse from the lack of blood. My fingers go numb, my vision blurs, and I start to fade out into static when
I find myself awake in a hospital room.