The dense air of thoughts

I breathe and then exhale as I let the cool night air wash over me for a few minutes. I pick up my cell phone and check the school website because I can't help myself. It's a form of self-torture that I can't escape from either. It has become an addiction, like with pills. As always, I instantly regret it every time I see the content.

My face falls off in shame when I see all the new and horrible things that are written about me. There are even some videos from different angles of me dropping today along with other horrible shit.

Since I don't want to see this shit anymore, I leave the website and just sit there for a while, staring up at the night sky. A sob rises in my throat and suddenly I feel a wave of emptiness hit me. I feel so lost and no longer have any idea what to do to survive in this place.

This feeling takes over me and makes me realize how unhappy I am. I don't know how to fix that shit to feel better. I feel nothing but despair in my soul. I haven't been living at all for the past few weeks. I've just been existing in this void I keep myself in. The drug induced one that won't let me out of its clutches, as I try to hide from all the bullies.

I open the music app on my phone and put on the song "I Don't Wanna Be You Anymore" by Billie Eilish. It fits my entire mood right now. Tears slide down my face in a steady stream as I let all the pain I've been feeling flow through me.

I cry for the girl I used to be before I let their hate and words affect me. Before I let all of that influence the way I changed about myself just because I didn't want them to continue to torment me. In the end, I realize it would never have worked. No matter what I did, they would still hate me. At that moment I realize that I will never go back to being the girl I was. I let them get inside my head and I've done terrible things to myself because of it.

That naive girl is dead and gone. With that thought in mind, I grab the new razor I've taken from the bathroom and pull it out of its sheath. I roll up the sleeves of my dress and start cutting my arm again.

I watch the crimson lines appear. The more I watch as I cut, the more I wish I was brave enough to cut my vein and be done with it all.

My chest heaves as I cut deeper than I've ever cut before. As much as it hurts to hurt myself like this, I keep going. I feel like it's the only thing I can do to not break completely. Is it weird to think that hurting yourself is the only thing that saves you?

When my arm is bloody, I drop the blade in the grass and roll down my sleeve again. I pick up my pencil and sketch pad and start drawing. My fingers are stained with blood and I can feel it dripping down my arm, but I'm in no condition to worry. Instead, I concentrate on the pad and do something I haven't done in a while. I start drawing self-portraits.

My fingers glide over the paper as if someone else is drawing. They move, but it's as if I'm somewhere far away, looking at me, but I'm not the one creating the action.

When I finish, all I see is a bloody, thin drawing of myself. There are cracks in my face that give me a distorted look. I hate that this is how I look now. Ugly...

When I can't stand to look at it anymore, I throw it on the grass next to me and start another one. I feel like I'm possessed. The need to keep drawing myself with all my flaws in sight is almost a compulsion.

This one is more of the same, only my face looks as if the wind is carrying it away, as if I'm being consumed. That's exactly how I feel. I set it aside as well.

I open the rum I brought and take a swig straight from the bottle. I take a couple of gulps and notice how my throat burns. I notice the alcohol building up in my stomach and burning me. My stomach growls and I can't remember the last time I ate properly. I sigh, another thing going downhill for me.

I keep drawing until my eyes start to weigh me down and the tiredness starts to overwhelm me. In this last sketch I look like a zombie: half of my face is pretty and the other half is missing an eye. My cheeks are sunken and my smile reaches my ear.

I dismiss it. I look at all the sketches in front of me and it takes me a moment to realize that they all show nothing but the hatred I feel for myself.

I hate what I have become and I hate myself.

I only have a few more months left and then I will be able to put all of this behind me. I hope I can hold on until then. I open the baggie with the pills I brought with me and take out two before swallowing them with the alcohol.

A hand appears in front of my face and snatches the bottle from me. I look up and see Rayan standing there with a stormy expression on his face as he stares at me. The asshole has made me drop the bag of pills as well.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he growls at me.

"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing, asshole?". I snap at him.

"Where have you been?" he asks me in a pissed off tone.

"Who cares? You know what, while you're at it you can fuck off because you're doing nothing but pissing me off," I blurt out. I try to stand up because I don't have the energy to deal with whatever it is that's bothering him right now.

But I don't manage to stand up because I fall back on my ass. I feel my chest start to ache. My breathing starts to get a little erratic and I break out in cold sweats. Instantly, I know something is wrong. My body feels worse than before.

"Can you leave? I don't feel so good," I whimper between frantic breaths.

A second later, the flashlights are pointed at me and, without thinking, I raise my left arm to cover my eyes. I see Adam ,Nick and Charlie standing there, staring at me.

"What the fuck is going on?" Adam gasps.

"Brother, your arm!" says Charlie in a frantic voice.

I look down at my arm and realize the sleeve is covered in blood. I quickly lower my hand back to my lap and duck my head so I'm not looking at anyone.

"What the fuck did you do?" I hear Rayan whisper in an unrecognizable voice. He reaches down and is about to grab my arm, but I quickly crawl backwards and pull away from him.

"I wanted to kill myself like everyone else wants to, but I'm too chicken to do it. Is that what you wanted to hear?" I spit out. His eyes land on a spot beside me. When I notice what he's looking at, I see the bag of pills and the alcohol lying on the floor.

"What, now you're a crack whore?" he demands angrily.

"I don't see why that's any of your business," I snap at him. I get up and this time I make it, but he grabs me and pulls me back until my back hits the tree. He stands in front of me.

"Someone check what the hell he was taking," he blurts out.