Spent, Rebekah Brewer [most important books of all time txt] 📗

I didn't quite know what to expect when the blade ran across my arm. Would it ever go deep enough? Blood beaded at the sliver but no pain accompanied it. A little disappointed, I guess I really wanted to go deeper and allow the blood to flow with less restriction. But the truth is, I either didn't have the guts to actually do it, or my restraint, set deep in my own subconscious surpass my will to murder and maim.

I examined my little incision, my mind jokingly rhyming it with 'decision.' Glee filled me, this was my decision.

I started picturing my father's face, enraged as I had been when I hung up on him. Another sliver, beading up red droplets that reminded me of tears. The tears representing my anguish with the feeling of betrayal. How could I help it if my older brother just wanted to talk to my younger brother, there being no room for his sister or even the little step child who holds no thoughts other than ones of herself. Why was I left behind? Left to hear that bitch, yelling on her cell phone, at my father for letting my elder brother come for us, for our brother. I had sat in my corner, hidden out of view, and covered my ears though my mind kept telling me 'We need a walk.' I added to myself, 'Maybe I'll see him

.'

I had waited out my anguish until the bitch left-still leaving me with her mini-bitch of a daughter and a stalker-ish elderly woman. I immediately left, walking out the anger and urge to cry, all along hoping I'd see him as I had only a few days ago. Maybe, if I met him, I could tell me story (of lies

, so my father says) and I wouldn't choose the blade or cry myself into pain.

I never had much luck with what I want as I arrived home before the bitch returned. I stayed in my room, feeling no better. My younger brother arrived home and I found myself crying as well as getting a call from my father again. Nothing good comes from talking with him, I realize now with the blood on my arm. I am nothing but a child to him. A tool meant to do whatever the Hell he wants. I refuse, for then what is the point of being human? None. Only seventeen and I am not even worth being considered human

.

The lying of the bitch, her daughter, and my father tear at me but not enough. The bullshit and the yelling add to the damage and only my younger defends me in the end.

What little light remained refracted off the blade. I couldn't find him let alone my control not to cut. Another thing was torn from me, opportunities where people give a fuck but not because of their own image.

I pressed the tip into my arm, twirling it by the handle while putting pressure against it. Who cares but God? Even in God's eyes, am I atrocious because of my love for Death? In God's eyes, is my battle, my cause

, a lost one? If so, then why do so many disagree with those against me? This skewed picture with broken glass is better off being burned.

Text: All of which my story, do not mimic. It's not cool.
Publication Date: 06-17-2011

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Dedication:
To my father who can burn in Hell along with me though I rather not see him in the afterlife