I've always had a feeling that I would die young. Ever since I started pondering on deaths door I've had this feeling. I could care less about the hell and heaven shenanigans, but death. I want it. The end of my life.
I want to be in my suit, in my...
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I no longer feel like a failure. I did it. I've been clean for ten years. Haven't touched, looked or even smelt any hardcore drugs in this time.
However, I'm still dealing with what happened on 12th May 2017.
The only reason I survived that night was because I had never shot a gun before. It was heavy and I flinched. The bullet went up, in and out of skull before hitting the wall in my bedroom. That's what my parents told me.
I was dying in the hospital. I was in a coma for a month, on a ventilator and the doctors told my family I wasn't going to make it. Somehow... I survived.
I was sent to a psychiatric hospital for twenty days before I was sent to a residential treatment facility for a month which made me miss my high school graduation.
After I came back home... after surviving a near death experience, my family never acted the same. Suddenly, both my mom and dad were concerned for me. My dad never laid his hands on me again and my mom began having everyday conversations with me. My sister is the only one who treated me with the same energy she gave before.
So did my friends. They all asked me what I'd like to do about it and I chose to never bring it up. They did what I asked them to do.
I can't seem to remember what happened all those weeks that led to that night no matter how much I try. When I was back in my bedroom, I saw a bunch of sticky notes on my wall that read 'she has to pay for what she did' and 'no one will believe you' butI have no idea what I was talking about.
Not knowing who she is drove me insane and I spent years trying to figure it out, but I couldn't find anything.
As I push back my long hair to see my scar in the mirror, the skin completely healed, the original color has returned. There are scars all over my body from self-harm, from picking my skin during my addiction, from burns caused by cigarettes. I trace all the scars while remembering the feeling of being lost and broken when I was seventeen. I remember thinking that's just how it's going to be for the rest of my life.
Sometimes I wish it worked, that the bullet went through the middle of my brain where it was supposed to go. But then I remind myself that if it did work, I wouldn't have a six year old pounding on the locked bathroom door with all the strength in his body. "Open!" He shouts as he hits the door harder.
With my limp leg, I slowly go towards the door, unlocking it before he comes running in with his lacrosse stick. "Let's go play." He hits me on my left arm with his stick, but I don't feel any pain since I lost my left forearm due to the muscle dying while I was in my coma. The doctors tried to save my arm, but it was poisoning my body so they had to amputate it. Which is fine since I got a sick bionic arm and I can take any future lacrosse stick beatings from my son.
I sigh, dropping my head. "We can't, it's dinner time, bud." I ruffle his hair as we both leave the bathroom, walking down the stairs towards the kitchen.
