Tattooed in Hell (Crown the empire)

Voices

I looked myself in the mirror and my mind was bombarded with a thousand thoughts.

Worthless Fuck

You shouldn’t live Johnny!

Johnny you’re a pathetic shit

Go Kill yourself

I felt my eyes swell up with tears as I held the pill bottle in my hands. Why can't I just be happy? Why can't I love myself? Why do I have to be depressed?

Because you’re a fucking bitch.

My tattooed hand held the bottle, I threw open the top and stared at all the tiny little blue pills. I stared back at my reflection; my dark brown hair was messed, and stood up from countless hours of no sleep and running my fingers through my hair.

I stared down at my body; it was filled with tattoos, all the way from my V line to the top of my neck. My eyes hazed over at the memory of my very first tattoo.

I was fifteen, and I walked up to a tattoo parlor one day after school and asked to get a tattoo of a skull on my rib cage. Being only fifteen, I thought that was a super cool thing to do. And that it would make me super popular, but I was dead wrong.

My mom screamed at me when she saw the tattoo, and hit me across the face for the first time, but that wasn't the last time either.

Since then, I always got a new tattoo somewhere on my body, it was because I wanted something that would express who I was. I wanted to say what words could not express.

That I was Johnny Ringo.

My focus came back from my memory and back at my opened pill bottle and useless reflection. My body didn't just show my endless amounts of tattoos, but my body also showed that I hated it as well.

I developed an eating disorder since the age of fourteen, for fourteen years I wasn’t able to eat a proper meal. One summer a while back I only ate breath mints, and drank water.

I hate the way I look; I thought I was too fat and that I needed abs and rippling muscles like the guys in all those magazines. Obviously I worked out every week, but that didn’t make a difference. So I resulted in not eating, my body eventually got used to it, like all things in life it adapted.

I'm now twenty eight years old, who can't eat a proper meal without hating himself, who lives off of popping back depression pills. While having an ink filled body and no life at all.

My attention went back to the pills in my hand, then back at myself. I stared myself in the eyes, my eyes were blue, but were also a mix of green specks, and when the light hit them right; it looked like I had specks of gold.

But I didn't see any of that, all I saw was how empty they were, how colourless they were, how soulless, emotionless. I saw years of torment, I saw years upon sadness.

I saw depression.

I looked away from the mirror and thought about my whole life. How my mother would beat me, how my step-father did nothing and just sat and watched. How I was labeled "Stupid" at school, a "Failure" I remembered the countless hours of bullying, I remembered the endless nights of crying.

I remembered the pain.

I remembered my life.

My hands started shaking; the pills were spilling over the yellow bottle and onto the white tiled floor. I clutched the bottle until my knuckles turned white and my veins were popping out of my arm.

I threw the bottle onto the floor and screamed at the top of my lungs, "FUCK"

I started shaking as I watched the pills scatter and hide between cracks and unreachable places.

"I wish I was happy" I sobbed as I held my head down, staring into the sink.

"You called?" I heard a deep husky voice from behind me.

"Wha-" I choked as I looked up into the mirror to find a young man in a suit sitting on my toilet.

I whipped my body around and gawked as I found the room empty, except for me.