the day after tomorrow

the knife wants to slit me

I need to kill myself. Plain and fucking simple. I know Bebe told me that it technically won't stop live any of my problems, but it wouldn't exactly hurt. I mean, who am I kidding, it's literally the same thing I already do, just with a bit more blood loss. I don't know. It may be a bit far, but it's really the only option I've got. Bebe doesn't like me back, Stan doesn't really love me anymore(or at least he definitely doesn't show it), and my parents wouldn't really care. I mean, they would, but not really that much.

My parents aren't bad people. They just aren't very good parents. I mean, I guess they aren't the worst, they just don't really care that much. My parents raised me and Janet as evangelical Christians as kids. We were always taught that if you don't believe you will rot in hell. Pretty serious stuff for a three year old. I'm not hating on Christians, don't get me wrong, but their approach was a little more, well, extreme. Eventually, they left the church. But I was still pretty strict with myself after that.

My dad was nice I guess. When I was younger, him and my mom both had a serious drinking problem, but he was the only one that ever got "aggressive". He didn't *hit* me per se, but he yelled. A lot. Like a whole fucking lot of yelling. He would punch my bruises and tell me to "brush them off" . He wasn't abusive, just kinda mean. He was pathetic. A sad, balding man past his football days, just working to get buy. He doesn't do anything, and yells at us for doing more than he does in a fucking week. I love him, I just don't like him that much. I want to hate him. I really do. I just *can't*. I'm pretty sure he cheated on my mom.

My mom was always caring. She was strict though. Very strict. She would chug one of her Mike's Hard Lemonades and then yell at me for not picking up my room, even though it was always messy. I was always messy I suppose. In second grade, my teacher actually made an award because I finally cleaned out my desk. Somehow, I managed to stuff an entire winter parka in there. Into that tiny ass little desk. It was very impressive. My mom is kind of interesting. She's always on one of her woke bullshit rampages. I mean, it's nice she cares, but she isn't my fucking therapist. She's always on some emotion talk, or contemplating her emotions, or yelling or cackling about some feminist speech or podcast she's listening to. It's awful. She used to say she misses me. She missed seeing her smiley little girl. I always wondered why she said that. I was right there. I was right fucking there. But her precious baby wasn't. She didn't want me to talk back. She didn't want me to be anything but what she wanted. Which wasn't much, but she was disappointed nonetheless. Super disappointed.

I don't look like my dad. We have different noses, different hair, different faces. I was always told I look like my mom. The only problem is, I'm just like my dad. When I die, you could peer into my body. You'd see a brain, organs, ribs, intestines, but most importantly, my dad's heart. That's what scares me. I'm scared I'll turn out like him. I'm scared I'll fall out of love and never regain it. Or be so hopelessly devoted to one person I'll never see they're bad for me. Or, even worse, that I'm bad for them. I can't be the carbon monoxide in other peoples lives anymore. I can't be the fork in the socket that ruins people's lives. I can't fucking to that to myself. Or anyone else for that matter.

They met in college. My parents loved each other, or at least I think they did. They haven't gotten a divorce, which is shocking. My dad was my mom's first boyfriend. My dad, on the other hand, had three girlfriends(just in college) before he met my mom. They got married in 2000. I was born a few years later. They were so in love when I was little. Now they rarely call each other anything but their names. If they speak at all. My dad sleeps in his office for most of the time. I feel bad.

Let's get back to the topic on hand. Suicide. Should I list my reasons? No. I have enough. Let's begin the preparations. I'll do it after school. Stan will be home by then.He will be blackout drunk, like always. He will yell, hit me a bit, and then smash a beer bottle possibly over my head. Perfect. I will take those shards and slit my wrists. A poetic end to a poetic girl. Just what I deserve. All I have to do now is get through one more day at this hellish fucking school.

*Bebe* I get to my first period class. I offer Wendy some of my mocha, but she doesn't seem to want any. Weird. She's wearing extra long sleeves today. I don't think she knows I know. I've known for a while. I just don't really mention it, because she's always been an insecure girl. She used to make fun of how fat her arms were. How fat she was. She wouldn't eat for days but I would pretend I didn't notice. I guess I'm kind of a shitty friend. I guess I already knew that.

*Wendy* Bebe's staring. Why is she staring? I go to adjust my sleeves, but she catches me. "U good?" She smiles, but I don't know if I believe her. "Yeah. Sure." I mutter, hoping she hears me, so I don't have to repeat myself. She sighs. I think she knows. How'd she figure that out? She was bound to know at some point. Maybe if she'd notice sooner I wouldn't be planning on killing myself tonight. Sighing, I rest my head in my arms and try and take a nap. It's the last day of school. I should give myself a break. I should've skipped. Maybe Bebe would skip with me? "Bebe, would you be ever so kind to skip with your literal favorite person ever?" I smile, trying to persuade her. She looks over, glares, and finally says sure. I love English class, but I'd rather hang out with Bebe. It is my last day after all.

We end up going to Whataburger(a/n-for those who don't know what that is, it's a really shitty burger joint that's basically everywhere in Texas). I get some fries. Whataburger isn't that good but it's way cheaper than Starbucks. I'm super bored. Bebe doesn't seem to want to talk to me, which is weird, but I don't really want to pry. This is honestly a pretty shitty last meal. I'll probably have a snack before well, you know. I wonder what Bebe's thinking about? Could it be me? I bet she wants to kiss me(because I'm just too fucking cool). I wish she'd get it over with. I love her, but then again she probably doesn't like me. I think? She's always been the one I could never read. I can tell what she's feeling, just not what she's thinking. We have the same brain, just not the same soul.

Dying isn't as fun as the Virgin Suicides make it seem. I can't just launch myself out of a balcony and call it a day. My house is one story anyways. I don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to do it. I almost died in seventh grade when I ate a shit ton of hand sanitizer(don't ask it was a dark time), and I got really scared that I may actually die. But I can't give up now, Stan's almost home. Me and Bebe had fun. We talked, reminisced about our childhood. It was a nice break from my already awful life. I don't really know what to do now. I think he's home. I better get ready.

He arrives. I'm calm, serene even. He starts yelling. I swerve, avoiding his meaty hands, clammy from the drugs and booze. He slaps me. I barely flinch. I'm sad, but not overly surprised. I'm kind of disappointed he made it this easy. He starts to sway, getting angrier and angrier. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. I thought I wouldn't be scared, but I am. I truly am. He grabs the bottle. Swings it once, then twice, then three times. It finally lands. My head hurts. I graze my temple, it comes back with blood. The bottle broke. I punch him. He leaves. I'm alone. Just in time. I'm starting to feel woozy.

Dear mom and dad. I'm sorry for doing this. I know I said I was better, but I don't know how true that was. I don't know if it was ever true. I'm sorry, it's not your fault, or Janet's. Tell her that, please. I know this is a dick move. Yes, I know, I did just write dick. Crazy. I'm sorry. This shouldn't be funny. Maybe I was to blame. I know I shouldn't be, but I think I am. It wasn't you guys' fault I turned out this way. Your golden child wasn't cursed with awful parents, just an awful brain. I feel like a shitty person for doing this to you guys. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve to have one of your daughters ripped away. I deserve it though. Sorry to get all emotional or whatever, but I do deserve this. I never told you guys all the stuff I did. The drugs, the alcohol. I didn't want you guys to be disappointed in me, though I'm sure you already were. I'm really sorry. I just couldn't do this anymore? It really sucked.
Bye,
Wendy