What do you do when you’re all alone in a battle against the world? No one likes you, you can’t make any real friends, you’re pushed around, you’re called names, you’re unwanted, you’re unloved, and you’re broken. Well, I know that celebrities, television shows, movies, and other people we look up to all tell us to fight back.

“Show them what you’re made of.”

“Prove them wrong.”

In my case, there isn’t anyone for me to look up to. According to almost everyone on this planet, celebrities fuck up everything, and in my opinion, high up on that ladder with them are my parents. If you’re anything like me, you don’t believe in happy endings, hope, God, or any of that “fight back” bullshit. I’ve been fighting for almost half of my life, and that hasn’t changed a thing. I’m weak, I’m alone, and I’m too tired to continue on with this never ending battle, especially when all I’m doing is hurting myself in the end.

I thought it was okay to cut when I first started to do it. I didn’t think it was a big deal, really. It was just something to numb the pain, even if it was only for a couple of seconds, and I figured no one else would care. In fact, I assumed that other people did it.

I was wrong.

I started earlier than most. I was only in seventh grade, and the kids around me all thought that I was a freak. Correction: everyone thought I was a freak. It was disgusting for someone my age to be doing such a thing to myself over “a couple of stupid kids’” views of me, and I was the only kid at my school that would do it.

“Be a man, and suck it up,” I would be told.

“Men don’t cry.”

“Men aren’t cowards.”

“Men are strong and fearless.”

Well guess what, World? I cry all of the time, and fear seems to be all I know nowadays. Does that make me any less of a man, or is it possible that all men hurt too? I don’t know the answer, and perhaps I may never know. All I know is that I hurt. I always hurt.

People think I’m seeking attention and that I just flash them my wounds for sympathy. Teachers tell me to put my jacket on to cover up the wounds, so I won’t be a bad influence on others and make them think it’s okay to cut. What hurts the most is when my peers tell me how much of a freak I am because, well, they make me feel like I truly am a freak.

I think I’m hideous. I think I’m a waste of space. I think this world would be better without me in it. Every name I’m called; every punch I receive; every humiliating event I’m put through; it hurts, so I cut my wrists and thighs, and occasionally I’ll burn myself with cigarettes. Then I’m even more ashamed of who I am, so I’ll cut and burn myself again. It’s just this cycle that I can’t escape.

There’s no escape.

I have no other option. I can’t live like this anymore.

---

May 27th 2013

The only sounds to be heard in the house were the drip drops of the leaky sink in my bathroom and the sobs that are escaping my own lips. No one is home; my mom’s at work, and my sister is at a friend’s house. Now is the best time to do this.

A few days ago, I spent a couple of hours taking my clothes out of my closet and removing the rotten wooden rod from the walls. As I placed a metal closet rod a few feet higher than where the wooden one had been, I explained to my mother that it was to give me more space to store my things. The real reason I placed it higher was because I knew this day was coming.
I sobbed shakily as I looked down at the rope I had stolen from my father’s garage while I was at his place last week. It laid at my feet along with my clothing that once hung in my closet and was now littered around my room due to an emotional breakdown I had as soon as I got home. The floor of my room was completely trashed with everything I owned, leaving the top of my dresser, my desk, and the inside of my closet completely empty.

Today was one of the worst days of my life, and that was saying a lot. I was overwhelmed with feelings of fear, anger, betrayal, and sadness. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in a world like this: a world where everyone is so cruel. I’m treated like I’m nothing. I’m told I’m nothing. I feel like I’m nothing. There’s no one left in the world that cares for my feelings except for my sister.

Sweet, sweet Gemma. She’d drop everything if I needed her, but I always needed her. I’m always sad and seeking some sort of comfort. I feel like a burden. My sister hardly has any friends who are patient enough to deal with her periodically leaving. My sister has never met a boy that’s taken a liking to me, so she’s never called a guy hers. My sister would do my chores for me if I’d come home bruised and battered from a day surrounded by bullies. My sister couldn’t even go away to college because that would mean leaving me behind and alone. Gemma can’t live the life she wants because of me, so that’s why I feel it would be best if I took care of her problem. In doing this, I’m doing what’s best for everyone.

That’s why I took the rope from the floor and quickly walked across the room to my desk. I pulled my chair from the desk and brought it to my closet where I set it down underneath the metal rod. I had tested the rod when I first placed it in, making sure it was sturdy enough to hold the weight of my body, so I knew there was no preparation needed other than to tie on the rope. Before I did that, I made a neck loop on the rope that was large enough to slip over my head as more salty tears streamed down my cheeks and desperate sobs escaped my lips. Finally, after placing the loop around my neck, I wrapped the other end of the rope around the cold metal bar and tied five tight knots into it so it’d keep its hold.

I didn’t feel the need to leave a note. The only person I’d have anything to say to was Gemma, and it was the same thing I always told her after she helped out; “Thank you.” It wasn’t necessary to leave that on paper when Gemma already knew how thankful I was to have her in my life. She was all I wanted to live for, but, sadly, it wasn’t enough anymore. I love my sister, I really do, but I still can’t help the huge void I feel inside. No one could, not that they’d even want to.

As soon as I realized that, I found myself beginning to take a step off of the chair, but I came to a halt as soon as I heard a blood curdling scream, “NOOOOO!” Gemma was stood in the middle of my room, looking towards me with a panicked expression.

I began to cry harder because I was embarrassed that my sister had caught me before I could even attempt such a thing, but it only made me want to hang himself more. That’s why I continued to lift my foot off of the chair, even if it meant dying instantly before my sister who was already sprinting to my aide. My sobs became screams when I felt my body being push back onto the chair just before the second foot could leave it. Gemma quickly stepped onto the chair to pin me against the wall, and she continued to hold me tightly as I screamed, “Just let me die,” into her ear.

“Harry, please,” she whimpered while trying to prevent me from shoving her away. I may have been taller than her, but I wasn’t nearly as strong as her. In that moment though, she was struggling to hold me down, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the adrenaline that was pumping through my veins or if it was because she was so stunned by what was happening.

“Let me go!” I thrashed around underneath her small body, trying to escape without hurting her in any way.

“No! No, Harry! I will not let you kill yourself!”

“I’m better off dead!” I sobbed. “Just let me die! Please!”

“No.”

I was finally able to remove my arms from underneath her, which caused Gemma to let out a loud gasp in immediate panic. She was so worried that she hadn’t even realized she lost her footing on the wobbling chair from the two of us wrestling around until she began to fall backwards. Even though it would’ve been the perfect opportunity to let her fall and to jump from the chair, I, instead, quickly grabbed my sister’s wrist and pulled her to my chest. I couldn’t allow her to get hurt, which meant I also couldn’t do this. I couldn’t kill myself in front of my sister.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked as I held her tighter to my body. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Gemma.”

It took her a few seconds to even respond, but, nevertheless, she wrapped her arms around me before bringing a hand up so she could stroke her fingers through my curls. “It’s okay,” she whispered to me. “It’s okay,” she repeated as she began to cry after the realization had hit her that I had almost taken my life.

“I want to die, Gem.”

“I know.”

No other words were exchanged. We only stood there and cried for what felt like hours. We cried until our heads hurt and our eyes were swollen. We cried even after removing the rope from my neck and stepping down from the chair. It wasn’t until our mother came home from work and found us asleep on the floor of the closet that we let go of each other because we knew that, now, we had to face reality knowing that our mother has seen the rope dangling from the metal rod.

---

Hours later, I was supposed to be taking a nap. My mother had told me that I just needed rest since I was overwhelmed, and it was because I was so overwhelmed that I was making such rash decisions. She obviously hadn’t noticed by my father’s rope and the raised closet rod that I had put a lot of thought into this plan, but I wasn’t going to argue with her about it. I couldn’t sleep at a time like this though, not when I could hear my father’s voice downstairs.

It was very rare that my father would show up at my mother’s house, especially since my parents can’t stand each other. It gave me an unsettling feeling knowing that my parents were most likely discussing what my mother had walked in on. For all I know, they could think I’m a freak now too, so I found myself hiding behind the railing at the top of the stairs as I spied on them and listened in on their conversation.

“I think it’d be best if I moved back in,” my father told Gemma and my mother as he stood before the tan leather couch they were sat on. Gemma was hugging her knees to her chest while my mother sat with her legs crossed and fidgeted with her acrylic nails in her lap, but once she heard Dad speak up, her attention was focused onto him to see if he was serious.

The thought of having my father move back in made me cringe. Gemma and I haven’t had to live under a roof with both of our parents in seven years for a good reason. They fight constantly, and sometimes, they’ll even throw things at each other. My father has his reasons for disliking my mother, ones I surely wouldn’t argue with him over, and my mother has a few choice reasons to dislike him as well, so it surprises me that’d he’d even suggest moving in. My mother’s response, on the other hand, didn’t surprise me one bit.

“No,” she immediately spat.

My father scoffed while throwing his hands up in the air and letting them land with a slap against his thighs. “He’s obviously not safe in your care.”

“I was at work.”

“Well, one of us should surely be here then, shouldn’t we?”

“I think you’ve forgotten that you have work too.”

My father began to pace the room as he ran a hand through his curls. “Sarah, we need to come up with some sort of plan. I’m worried about our son, aren’t you?”

“How could you even ask that?” she suddenly became defensive, showing it visually, too, when she crossed her arms across her chest like a child. My mother is actually ten years younger than my father, so Gemma and I would always like to secretly point out to each other when she’d make it known with her childish body posture. “Of course I care about our child. I’m just saying we can’t choose our schedules, Paul.”

“Well, we can try to compromise with our bosses since we have a bit of a crisis,” he hissed at my mother, causing her to shrink in her seat a little. He let out a lengthy sigh before pinching the bridge of his nose, which was something he always did when he would try to calm himself down. “How about this, we will do what we can with our schedules, and whatever days one of us can’t be here, Gemma will have to stay home.”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair to Gemma that she has to babysit her pathetic baby brother because he wants to die. She should be allowed to go out with her friends or do something people her age do. My parents are putting a huge responsibility on her hands, but then again, it’s not like she already wasn’t being a substitute parent for me. Nothing much would change on her part, I guess, but I still feel like I’m ruining her life.

“Okay,” Gemma agreed softly with a nod of her head.

“Are you okay, Sweetie?” my father sat on the arm of the couch, just on the other side of my sister, as he trailed his fingertips up and down her back, and I rolled my eyes. What a stupid question to ask her. Of course she’s not okay. Not only am I destroying her life, but she also had to save me from ending mine.

“I think,” she paused to swallow thickly, “I think Hazza needs help, Mom and Dad.”

I felt my heart drop in my chest. No, no, no, no. Not her too. Gemma thinks I’m a freak. She thinks I’m crazy. I don’t need help. What I need is for people to leave me alone. I just want to be treated like everyone else, but I also wish they’d all leave me be. I don’t need help. I’m not crazy. I’m not a freak.

“Gemma,” my mother’s voice was laced with shock. “No, my son does not need help. He’s fine, he just needs his family right now. I do not need you telling me I’m a bad parent.”

The features on Gemma’s face scrunched up and I watched as her cheeks flushed pink with anger. “That’s not what I said,” she spoke through her teeth, but she and I both know she was thinking it. “You weren’t there. Neither of you were. You didn’t see it. I saw him,” her voice turned hoarse and her anger soon changed to hurt. “He didn’t even care that I saw him, and he tried to kill himself even though I was in the room. He was so desperate to end is life right there. He needs help. He needs to see someone.”

My eyes welled up with tears. I lost her too. I’ve lost everyone. No one is on my side anymore. Gemma thinks I’m crazy. I may not have cared about her feelings when she first walked in on me, but I knew I couldn’t do that to her. She doesn’t seem to believe that though. She doesn’t believe in me.

“We’ll think about it,” my father nodded to her, and my mother shot him a glare in which he only shrugged to. “For now, we’ll just try to be there for him more, okay? I’m moving back in.” My mother opened her mouth to protest but my father beat her to it, “It’s either that or you all can move into my place or we can take our son to therapy which you seem to think he doesn’t need.”

“Because he doesn’t,” she groaned and ran a hand down her face. “He’s fine. He’s going to be fine. If you think he’ll feel better with you in the house and the two of us constantly fighting, then fine, be my guest, literally,” she rolled her eyes. “You’ll be sleeping on the couch every night, and you’ll be shopping for your own groceries. Oh, and you’ll be paying rent.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he spoke sarcastically. “I also think we should transfer him to a new school for his last year of high school. He’s always struggled in school, so I’d assume that’s one of the many reasons that’s led him to this.”

Gemma abruptly stood from the couch and away from my parents, turning her back towards the direction I was in. “You’d assume?” she laughed bitterly. “Where have you two been his whole life?”

“Gem-“ my mother started, but Gemma cut her off by raising her hand in there air.

“Sometimes I think I’m more of his Mom and Dad than you two will ever be,” she spoke shakily before walking out of the room, leaving our parents with their jaws to the floor.

I would’ve listened longer, but that’s when Gemma found me behind the railing. That’s when she saw the tears streaming down my face. That’s when she realized I had heard everything they talked about.

“Harry-“

“No,” I shook my head frantically as I stood to my feet and took a few steps back to distance myself from her. “You don’t trust me anymore. You don’t-” my voice wavered. “None of you do.”

“Can you blame me?” her words were like a dagger to my heart.

“I would never hurt you.”

“What do you think killing yourself would do to me?”

“Free you,” I spoke out honestly and without any hesitation whatsoever.

I watched as she sat down onto the carpet with her legs crisscrossed, and she buried her face into her hands before letting out a few strangled sobs. “I wouldn’t be free,” she finally removed her hands to look up at me. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from all the crying she had done today, her hair was a tangled mess from running her hands through it over and over in a nervous habit, and her cheeks were soaked with fresh tears. My beautiful sister hasn’t looked this way, ever, in my life. She seemed exhausted, and no one was listening to her. My parents are too caught up in their soap opera of a life to even hear what she has to say, and my selfishness surely wasn’t helping her out either.

“I’m ruining you.”

She shook her head and continued to as she said, “No you’re not. You’re stressing me out, I won’t lie,” she chuckled under her breath and wiped at her tears. “Harry, if I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do, but I do know that I’d be devastated. Not because just because I couldn’t save you, but because I love you more than I love life. I love you more than I love our stupid parents. I love you more than I love the moon and the stars, and you know I really, really, really love the moon and the stars. I love you like I’d love my children someday because, in a twisted way, you are my son when you’re supposed to be my brother, but that’s not your fault. That’s on Mom and Dad.

“I’m sorry you heard what I said downstairs. I’m sorry if you think I’m not on your side anymore because, Harry, I’m always on your side. You should know that.” As much as I wanted to ask her if I really should know that, I kept quiet. I didn’t need to upset her more than I already had, so I just let her continue to speak. “I just,” she sighed and sniffled, “I just feel like you need someone to talk to, you know, someone to vent your feelings to. Therapy could go a long way, Hazza.”

“I vent to you though.”

She stayed quiet for a couple of seconds before carefully asking, “What happened today?”

I looked down at my shoes as the events replayed in my mind. “I-I-” I couldn’t even say the words. Reliving what happened seemed to be more painful than when I went through it. “Please don’t make me talk about it,” my lip trembled in fear.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to. I’d never force you to. It’s just, its days like these, Harry. Its days like these that you won’t vent to me or tell me what happened at all, and it’s not just about letting out your thoughts and feelings. There’s so much more that you need to help you through this. I just want to help, okay? I would never give up on you. Just like you’re desperate to end your life, I’m desperate to keep you alive. I can’t lose you,” she choked out. “I just want to save you.”

I slowly brought myself to the floor and wrapped my arms around her. “You can’t fix me,” I whispered.

“I know,” she breathed out in between cries before laying her head onto my shoulder. “But I can try.”

Notes

Here it is! The project I've been working on for quite some time now. I know this is slightly similar to "Mistreated," but the reason I decided to write this was because "Mistreated" was pretty popular for awhile. It seems as though you guys find my sadder stories more intriguing, and I also have a much easier time writing these kinds of stories rather than the happy ones. I will still continue to be writing "The Bucket List" and "Amateur" though. I wouldn't even wish to stop writing them because I'm having a lot of fun with them.

In case you are wondering, it says "By: Mylalaland15" in the cover photo because I made the silly mistake of using my Wattpad username for the picture, and I hadn't realized it until after I closed out Photoshop. Naturally, I just left it cause I'm lazy haha.



I hope you loved the prologue, and I hope you're as excited about the story as I am.

Vote and subscribe, it'd mean the world to me. Be sure to leave me a comment as well and let me know how I did in writing the prologue. Love you guys<3