I Hate You (On-Hold), Chloe Knox [best management books of all time .txt] 📗

"Who am I?"
That is the one question I never thought I'd be asking myself.
When you're little, life seems so carefree and easy. Everything was fun, nothing was boring. The whole world was new and exciting. Every girl was a princess and every guy was a super hero. Everything was perfect, when I was little. Of course there were the days where I'd still get into trouble. There were the days were I broke my father's C.D.s. There was a day were I got in trouble for trying to make kool-aid and scrambled eggs on the floor. There was even a day that I had decided to through the cat out the window!
...But life was still easy. Life was still a fairytale. And now...

My heart ached and my gut felt like a pit of nothingness as I sat on my bed, tears streaming down my face to the point where I couldn't see clearly. Instead of my normal room with the splattered walls and the soft quilt, all I saw was blur...just like my life.
When I was little I used to be confident. I used to believe in God. Now, I've lost my way, and I can't seem to find it. It was almost as if my blurred vision was a symbol. It symbolized the way I saw my life.
When I was little I thought I had everything figured out. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and no one could ever, EVER stop me. Now, my life is a chaotic mess that has slipped through my fingers. I am no longer in control. I'm helpless and alone. I'm a victim of my own pathetic life.
Do you remember the days when you were little? The days that you could be so innocent? The days that you would promise things to your parents that you were sure you could keep?
Me? I can perfectly.
I remember the days that I'd get so mad at my dad for smoking. I remember the days that the smoke from the single cigarette made me choke and want to vomit. I remember the day that I said, "Daddy, I'm never gonna smoke!"
I remember the days where I'd roll my eyes at the girls that starved themselves to "fit in". I remember the days where I'd roll my eyes at the popular kids, because "I'll never be mean like them."
I remember when I said, "I'll never drink."
I remember when I said, "I'll never cut myself."
I remember when I said, "I'll never say 'I hate you'."
When I was little life was carefree and easy. Everything was fun, nothing was boring. The whole world was new and exciting. I was a princess. When I was little I thought I had everything figured out. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and no one could ever, EVER stop me.
...and I was stupid for thinking I'd keep those promises. I was stupid for thinking that life would never change. I was stupid for thinking that I'd always be the perfect little princess, that my mother and father loved...

So I look down at my bloody wrist, my blurred vision only now starting to clear up (Not because I'm not sad anymore, but because I've cried so much that I feel dried up. I sob and sob, but no more tears come out). I think of my life, my family, my friends...and of the pain...and I ask myself, "Who am I?"
The truth is...I don't know!

Tanya P.O.V.

I sit in middle of the shower with my head tilted up toward the water. A single tear rolled over my cheek when I blinked. My heart pounded, my breathes quickened, and my bare body shook.
I knew that what I was doing was wrong. And to be quite honest, I’m not even sure that it helped heal my feelings of heart break or hurting. It probably didn’t. It just numbed me. It numbed my emotions of betrayal and my never ending emotions of self-hate. It took away all my worries and regrets. It seemed to wash away my sins…for the time being, that is…and then all I had to focus on was…
I held back a whimper by biting my bottom lip as I pressed the clean, sharp, and silver razor blade into my wrist and sliced the pale flesh open. Crimson red blood immediately began to trickle from the thin, yet deep, cut on my wrist. It tickled at first as the blood oozed its way from my cut and down my arm…but then the pain kicked in. The stinging aching pain that no person would ever imagine could come from such a tiny slit, yet I was grateful. I was grateful for the pain that made me forget my so called friends and all the soreness I had ever felt. And my mother? Oh, that bitch!
The moment I felt my anger and pain begin to rekindle I pressed the edge of the razor blade into my flesh again, breaking the skin and making another deep cut that bled onto the shower floor.
I repeated this over, and over, and over, until I felt no emotion at all. It took about half an hour, but eventually I was carefree. It didn’t matter to me, that I no longer had any friends. It no longer mattered to me that I was failing school. And it no longer mattered that my mother was a complete and utter a-hole. She didn’t deserve me or my love. She doesn’t deserve my father, or my brother, or anyone…Nope! Guess I’m not done!
The blade again made contact with my flesh only this time I pressed it into a cut I had already made. It increased the pain by a million, but it also took my thoughts off of my mother. Instead I focused on the massive pain, not the emotional but the physical pain.
I couldn’t go to school all upset over my mother and life. I had to at least look like I didn’t give a shit. I had to at least look like I was handling everything fine. I couldn’t go to school looking like the complete emotional wreck that I was, or else everyone at school will start calling me “emo” and “depressed”. It might be the truth, but it doesn’t hurt any less than a horrible rumor would. Besides, they all talk about me enough as it is.

“Good morning, sweetie.” My father said, his voice soft and gentle, when I walked downstairs.
“Morning daddy,” I mumbled as I took a seat at the bar. My father placed a bowl of cereal in front of me. It was Cookie Crisp; my favorite. I couldn’t hold back the smile. It was the little things that my father would do that put a smile on my face. He was the one person on this horrible planet I could stand…well, next to Nicole, my best friend. I just called her Nicki, though.
“Oh. My. God. Is that a smile I see?” my father teased with a big and charming smile.
I didn’t say anything as I plastered a fake (yet convincing) smile on my face. The sudden guilt that hit me in my stomach made me want to tell the truth to my father and say I’m sorry. I felt guilty for cutting myself, knowing that my father would be hurt tremendously if he found out. He loved me…then I heard my mother upstairs, and all my guilt went away as quickly as it had come.
“Tanya! Tanya! Get your ass up here! Get up here, right now!”
I looked over at my dad, who just looked at me with the same exact expression I probably had. His light blue eyes were scared and seemed worried.
I took in a deep breath in an attempt to calm down my beating heart. I knew what was going to happen. It happened almost every day at least once…you’d think I’d be used to it. That after awhile, her words just wouldn’t hurt anymore, that her screams and spats of hatred would mean nothing to me. And one day maybe they will. Maybe one day my mother won’t be able to hurt me…but for now, she got me! Right now, it was like I was my mother’s little voodoo doll. She pocked and prodded at me till I burst.
I walked upstairs to find my mother in the bathroom leaning over the sink with both hands clutching the counter top. Her knuckles were turning white, and for a moment I thought she was going to actually break the counter.
“Y-yes, mother?”
“Where the hell is my hairspray!?”
Really? Really? That’s what you look so pissed about? You can’t find your hairspray? Wtf?
“I don’t know,” I mumbled as my anger and annoyance grew. She always reacted. She never just took a step back, took in a deep breath, and thought…she just reacted.
Her eyes narrowed on me, the chocolate brown eyes of hers turning big and black with anger. She snapped her hand up next to my face, but she didn’t hit me. I still recoiled, though. Who wouldn’t? Her hand was inches from my face, “Don’t you dare talk to me in that tone of voice.”
“What tone? All I said was that—“
“You said ‘I don’t know’!” my mother said as she sighed and crossed her arms and did what she thought was a good imitation of me; nose scrunched, lips turned to a frown, and she rolled her eyes.
“I didn’t do that—“
“Oh just shut up! Where’s my hairspray?”
“Mom! I don’t know!” I felt so angry; I could feel my body radiating heat. Why couldn’t she just except that if I said I didn’t know, I didn’t? Why was it that everything always had to be me?
“Well, it had to be you or your sister, and she said she didn’t touch it.”
Of course! Leah was the innocent angel! As usual!
“Well it wasn’t me! I don’t even use hairspray, mom!”
“Whatever! Get out of my face!”
That last sentence really hurt. She said it all the time to me, yet it was the one that hurt the most. She always said it when she was hitting her breaking point, when she was fed up of talking or even looking at me. And every time she said it, she was interrupting me. She’d never let me finish what I was saying. She’d never let me explain or tell my side of the story. She’d always just assume; Tanya! Tanya! Tanya!
“But mom! You’re not even listening to me! You’re just—“
“I said get out of my face!” my mother screamed as she pushed my shoulder making me stumble backward over my own feet. I fell on my butt, in