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she woke up realizing it was still the same day and the nap was short.
it was sunny and hot and she turned the air conditioning on and shut all the windows.
It was Father's Day. The last time she had called her step dad - maybe on his birthday last year, he had said "why did you call me, I already texted you." This year, she would correct that mistake and not bother anyone.
not bother anyone.
she got some iced water and lay on the white sofa in the room with the rainbow carpet and the sky art that was pawpadz burial at mt. Shasta but no one would ever know.
she composed last notes in her head as she lay with a mild headache.
I'm sorry for the mess.
I'm sorry for the cats.
I'm sorry I was fat.
I'm sorry I wasn't what you wanted.
I'm sorry for the trouble.
she had made it like this.
she had done it.
not one person would spend more than a week at most wondering about her existence.
her writing would die unknown.
it sucked anyway.
she felt sorry for Dobby but knew he'd be fine. so would orangie. she had made it so they weren't that dependent on her. anyone can feed something.
and the sad thing was that she would probably live another loser five or ten years or so and bury her mother and stepfather - letting her awesome big sister do all the work as was expected and she would just be that annoying lump.
she remembered uncle Scott and that anger she had that he died of suicide without a funeral.
now she understood. who wanted the expense of some sad nothing.
just end it.
with as little fanfare as possible.
another life that didn't really matter.
she laughed bitterly. If she told anyone the tiniest fraction of the death she felt, there would be some expensive intervention - not because anyone cared - because that's what you do. She had the tattoo though. she wasn't going to kill herself.
but fucking hell
it hurt so very much to be so old
and to mean nothing
the most she could get at this very very moment was
someone rushing to fuck her
hole
ouch.
and there was not a soul to blame. she just sucked at living.
She looked at all the attempts she had made - all the decorations she had tried - in this home that was sort of a camp, and she knew that it would all just be packed away and thrown in a dump - as it should be. Her computer, all the words in it, no one would care. no one cared now. why would they care then.
her guitar. her carpet. her taste. her diaries. all in the trash. she had heard of the suicides who killed themselves from inside a body bag. It broke her heart, and she understood. For her, she briefly wondered if she could just put a bag over her head and die in the red toter garbage bin.
what a drama queen. what a boring waste.
she was ugly. She was fat.
no one liked ugly sad people. she would have to wait until she was happy again to maybe emerge to get some more morsels of affection.
maybe.
for now, she had cut a lot of the grass and hoped it would be something. Besides, in all frankness, to kill herself, well it would be dramatic and so much trouble. best to just disappear while heart beating. not make trouble. show up. smile. and then die.
but god any everything not that anyone cared or even knew but she was in so much pain.
it didn't matter.
it never had.
she wanted to die just to have it end or at least sleep for a little bit until it was over. it was the longest day of the year. it was beautiful. she was so fucking sorry that she wasn't what anyone wanted - just some fucking sad annoying dipshit that everyone was tired of helping.
the cats wafted around her while she sobbed on her sister's rug. she wanted more than anything on planet earth just to have it all go away. It had all started when she couldn't deny that it was real. she couldn't even bond with a fucking fellow weirdo. not that it mattered. not that she blamed anyone. her writing sucked. she laughed kind of at when she thought when this all happened that she would make it into art. Jesus. the delusion.
and she knew the drill. she'd been here before.
just shut up.
stop being so sensitive.
keep pretending.
sob alone. no one gives a fuck and don't you dare tell anyone.
sit on the charity sofa. cry your fucking heart out again. blame it on the hormones. blame it on your fucking family. you're so ridiculous. stop this.
you're lucky.
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