Suicidal Attractions, CreativeNative [rooftoppers TXT] 📗

Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m sorry. It was my fault. I

...I wipe away the tears with the sleeve of my shirt.

Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have made you return that dress. If you hadn’t left, you would still be alive. I am a horrible horrible horrible person. I deserve to die just like you.

Megan

I sit at the table alone in the coffee shop. I watch people come in and go out. Smiles on their faces. Because everything’s okay – for them.
A woman in a work suit with heels and a briefcase orders a low-fat latte. Two of them. Probably for her co-worker, the guy waiting for her in the Mercedes outside.
A group of people my age walk in, talking and laughing to each other. They order a bunch of coffees, cappuccinos, lattes, bagels, and breakfast burritos. Probably on their way to college and shit…
Then a man walks in. Beige blond hair. Neatly done. Dark gray suit. Handsome.
He orders a Sausage, Egg & Cheese sandwich with a Cinnamon Dolce Latte.
As he’s waiting for his order, he casually surveys the room, maybe looking for a place to sit. When his eyes land on me he smiles.
Not a cocky smile or an “I’ll be fucking you later” smile.
A genuine one.
No one ever smiles at me like that except for my grandmother.
It catches me off guard…
…I slowly look away. I return to my focus to my notebook:
Grandma says it’s not my fault. But she’s just trying to be nice. Deep down, she knows it’s true. I wish she’d stop faking. She
“Hi.” The voice makes me flinch a little.
It’s him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I was just going to ask you if I could sit here.”
Huh…?
“Um… okay.”
He takes the seat across from me, placing his sandwich and beverage on the table.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking… but what’s a beautiful young woman like you doing sitting all by yourself?”
…Beautiful? The last person that called me beautiful was a perverted little shitface who kept trying to make me watch him feeling himself up in the library.
I shrug and then added, “I don’t know anybody… or… they know me… and don’t talk to me anyway.”
He studies me a moment. “So, you don’t have any friends…”
I shake my head.
Instead of looking at me with pity or sympathy (which I hate) he nods and starts to eat.
... So I start writing again:
She’s just waiting for me to get a job far away from here and move the hell out. Since that’s what she wants, that’s what she’ll get. I just have to
I lean on my left elbow to be in a more comfortable position.
figure something out.
Then I freeze, as the sleeve of my shirt slips off my forearm and down to my elbow…
…revealing the cuts and bruises I gave myself the other night…
I try to act as if I don’t realize they’re visible, but I feel Christopher noticing them…
“…What happened to your arm?” he asks me.
My heart races and I try to think of something to say.
“Um…I fell.”
“It must’ve been a pretty bad fall for you to hurt yourself like that…”
I nod, pull the sleeve back down and continue to write:

Text: Copyright © 2011 CreativeNative All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law
Publication Date: 07-10-2011

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
To Mrs. Shelburne - who's love and care never put suicide in my vocabulary...