Flower Petals

1. Suicide

'Bruh.'

Why the fuck am I staring at a ceiling? Or, more accurately, how the fuck am I alive?

I just died.

It all happened so fast. I was walking down from the gas station, being cautious because I knew we lived in a bad neighborhood.

My mother was strict on me, hardly ever letting me go to my friends' house, so it took a lot of convincing and a few years for her to let me walk down the street to go to the gas station.

It should've been fine, it was literally down the block. But alas, if only my mother wasn't a narcissistic, hypocritical, abusive bitch maybe I would've wanted to live. Maybe I wouldn't have purposely got myself shot.

There were a couple of men arguing down the street, across the gas station. They were yelling and screaming at one another, guns pulled out. There was a little blonde kid behind one of the men, shaking.

So, I did what any suicidal idiot would do. Well, first, I told the cashier at the gas station to call the cops. Then I was going to go snatch the blonde boy so he wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.

Wasn't a foolproof plan, because the minute I started walking their way they noticed me.

"Get the hell outta here, girl!"

I kept walking.

"The fuck I just say, dumbass?!"

I didn't care.

"One more fucking step and I'll blow your brains out!! I'm not playing!"

Too bad for him, those threats sounded like sweet Heaven to me.

What was the point in living if I was never allowed to do anything? All the friends I made had new friends. They stopped inviting me out to places since my mom always said no.

"There's no reason they can't come here." She would say. Except there was a reason. There was always a reason.

To get away from you. I had always wanted to tell her, scream it in her face, even. I wish I did before I died, but how was I supposed to know that such a magnificent opportunity would befall in front of me?

My mom and dad always argued, yelling and screaming at each other. It's what I grew up hearing. And no matter how many times they threatened to divorce, they never did because they weren't financially stable by themselves.

My mom always accused my dad of cheating on her when she was the one gone every night. My dad never did anything around the house, no cleaning whatsoever. He did cook a few meals, but it's not worth much to my mom, who cooks, cleans, and works.

I still liked my dad better, even if he hardly did anything. At least he didn't leave bruises on me. There was one thing we both had in common, and that was suffering my moms belitting.

I thought I had finally escaped that life, but why the hell am I able to open my eyes right now?

I sat up slowly, taking everything in. I was in a light orange colored room. There was a reddish-brown desk, and there was a pink, fluffy blanket on top of me. The room included a full body sized mirror, a clock hung on the wall, an oval basket, a dresser, and two pictures.

I had no fucking clue where the hell I was.

Throwing the blanket off of me, I settled my feet on the floor. I seen a blob of pink on my shoulder. Confused, I tried to throw the blanket off.

Oh.

It's not the blanket.

Is that hair???