and nobody cares if I'm dead or alive

Tears pour from my eyes, stinging my cheeks as red fluid flows down my arm. It hurts, but not as much as the pain buried deep inside me, the heavy weight on my shoulder, the suffering of my pained heart. Nobody cares that I'm alone here, in my forgotten bedroom, knife in hand, blood streaming across my arm. And nobody cares if I'm dead or alive. Nobody even knows I'm there.

I'm invisble. They bump into me in the hallway, curse or swear at me, make fun of me when they know I can hear. They spread rumors that I'm alien, or non-human. They say I'm anti-social and don't want friends. But in fact, I would die for a friend who understands, who cares, who actually knows I exist. But no, nobody cares. They hate me. They all hate me.

I'm sick of being treated like an abused, neglected dog. Why won't my parents accept me for the way I am? Why must they ignore me, and instead spoil my sister? What is it that separates me from this world? It's not fair!

I raise the knife and dig deeper into my skin, knowing that life will never be the way I want. Nothing will. I'm lost, insecure, but nobody cares. And nobody cares if I'm dead or alive, or they would have stopped me now-the door is open.

No one can understand the pain I feel, deep down in my heart. If they saw me cutting myself, they couldn't understand that this is the only way I can be sure I'm alive, that it calms me down, to release the cursed blood that runs through my veins. By taking the shining silver blade and slicing it across my wrist, the pain reassures me that I'm not dead, though I wish I was. And nobody cares if I'm dead or alive. Nobody. Nobody. Nobody.

I slit my wrist one last time before collapsing on my blood-stained bed, wrist white with loss of blood. Maybe I'll die of blood loss. Then the world could be a better place, without me. I bury my face in my tear-stained pillow and cry loud, though nobody hears me. And if they do, they don't care. And nobody cares if I'm dead of alive.

Pain stung my cheek as the blonde slapped her hand across my face. "Freak." She hissed, digging her nails into my arm. A brunette grabs me from behind and pulls me to the ground.

"You're such an emo freak!" The blonde repeated, roughly grabbing my bleeding arm and pulling me up, just to slap me to the ground again. "I'm surprised your blood isn't green or anything weird like that."

I can't cry. I couldn't. That would make me weak. And yet, no matter how hard I struggled to keep the tears in, they would leak. Not because of the physical pain, but because I knew they hated me. They were abusing me yet again, and they didn't care. All they wanted was something to play with, and, unfortunetly, I happened to be that toy. That poor, abused toy with nobody to love it. An abandoned barbie, neglected by its owner. A teddy with no one to hug it. A punching bag, for all to hit.

The blonde dug her two inch heel into my stomach and I let out a groan, throwing my head back in pain. The brunette knelt on the ground and grabbed a fistful of my long raven black hair, and pulled. I winced as she pulled my locks from my scalp.

The blonde removed her foot just to kick me in the ribs, before digging her heel into my throat. I instantly began to struggle for breath, clawing desperately at her foot. She squealed and lifted her foot to kick me in the ribs again. "You scratched me, you b*tch!" She hissed, only making her dig her shoe back into my airway.

The more I tried, the harder it became for me to breathe. The brunette was yanking my hair so hard, red liquid mixed with my black hair. Crimson red...the color of blood, mixed with black...the color of death.

Black formed at the corners of my eyes as I opened my mouth wide, struggling to breathe.

"Nobody loves you." The blonde hissed. "Everybody hates you. Even your own father hates you." I began crying, knowing she was right. My father didn't even know I existed. I hadn't spoken to him in almost five years, because he was much too busy gushing over my sister. I doubted he even knew he had another daughter.

As colors danced around my head, I couldn't help but wish I were dead. I wished I were dead more than I ever had before. I wanted to escape from my black moral chains, to be free and lost in paradise. I let salty water flow from my eyes, knowing death couldn't come soon enough for me. The world would be a much happier place without me. I stopped struggling and just laid there, letting the brunette tear at my head, the blonde suffocating me with her highheel shoe.

I watched as a black abyss clouded my vision. In the distance, I could make out a faint figure in white, calming, beckoning, smiling at me. I could hardly lift a finger, but somehow managed to raise my arm towards the white figure. Whoever she was, I knew I would be safe with her.

And then...everything was black.

I could hear someone calling my name. "Wake up." A female voice seemed to say. "You've got to wake up. Wake up and live...live...live..." The voice became fainter and fainter.

I didn't want to live.

I faintly open my eyes. Great. I'm in the hospital. Alone. No doctors, no nurses, not even my own family. Why wasn't I dead already?! Why am I still alive? I clutched the white sheets in anger, my hands trembling. If nobody cared, why was I still alive? I just wanted it all to end...wasn't that enough to ask?

I begin to cry, knowing I was living yet nobody cared. I turn my arm so my wrist was facing up and examined the scars I had made. So many times had I taken a knife to my wrist to ease the pain. Now, there was nothing to help me now. I lightly touch the red marks, feeling how deep I had dug the silver blade into my flesh. So many times had that blade spilled blood onto my bed, leaving a permanent mark of suffering engraved onto my bedsheets. How much I had hated my life. Now I hate it even more, and knowing I was still living the same life angered me.

And so I let myself cry. I cry as uncaring doctors calmly walked past me. I sob when nurses take one glance at me and turn around.

I see a figure coming towards me. A male figure. I recognize him to be the boy that sits next to me in math. He never seemed to hate me, yet he never seemed to care when others abused me. So why was he here, walking steadily towards me?

"Hi." He greets me, his lip curling in a half-smile. I was completely stunned that someone had spoken to me in such a friendly manner. "I um...brought you these." It wasn't until now that I realize he had brought blood red roses, and was currently setting them next to my hospital bed. Why was he doing this? I didn't even know him. It was all too confusing.

"Um...my name's Adam."

Still all too confused, I hesitantly gave away my identity. "Candice." I whisper.

He nods slowly. There is a moment of awkward silence, when I suddenly asked him the question that was prodding my mind ever since he arrived. "Why are you here?" I ask, a bit more coldly than intended.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be?" He asks back.

I grit my teeth. "Because you don't care. Nobody cares! Go away!"

"But-"

"GO AWAY!!" I shriek at the tops of my lungs, throwing my face into the pillow to muffle my sobbing screams. I didn't want to see him. I just wanted to die.

"Candice-" He starts, but is interrupted by my scream. I can tell I've hurt him, but I don't care. If he doesn't care, then I don't. "Candice..." He says, more softly this time, and I can't help but lower my sobbing just a bit. "I do care. And I understand you. I know you don't think I do, because you've been hated all these years...but I really do care."

I raise my head and turn to face him, my own face wet with salty tears. How could he understand what I've been through? Why would he care about me, the freak, the misfit, the alien? But as these thoughts run through my mind, I allow him to take my arm into his hand. I watch carefully as he exams my scars. "You did this to yourself?" He asks, lightly running a finger over the red marks.

I chew my bottom lip. "It makes the pain go away." I answer softly.

His face scrunched up like he was in severe pain. "No. No, it doesn't. It makes it hurt even worse." With that, he turns over his own wrist to reveal his own faint slit marks. My eyes widen in surprise.

"I used to cut myself," He mumbles. "Back when I thought there was no reason to live. When there was no alternative but to leave this desolate place forever."
"Why?" I ask, my voice as soft as his. I'm not sure why we are whispering, but I don't want to ruin the moment.

"My father was an alcoholic and came home drunk every night. He beat me and said I was worthless. And all my mother could do was watch in tears because she knew if she stepped in, my dad would kill her. So she just stood there and saw me receive pain from my own father. After I could escape, I would lock myself in my room with a knife and slit my wrists. It didn't help the physical pain, though. No, it made it worse. But it seemed to ease my spirit, and I wondered if I cut deep enough, would I strike a vein and die?
One day, I did so. When I awoke in the hospital with my mother crying in my lap, I hated her for not letting me die. I was upset that I was still alive. But when my mother started talking to me, the words touched my heart and I knew I was loved.
'I divorced him, baby, I divorced him,' she said over and over through tears. 'my poor baby, why didn't you tell me this sooner?'
And all I could do at that moment was feel content with my life."

I bite my lip. His past was worse than mine. My father neglected me, yes, but never abuse. And yet...I can't help but feel a little bit jealous. Jealous that he always had someone to love him, even if he didn't notice.

His hand hesitantly slides up, lightly brushing against my own once, before grabbing it softly. He slowly lifts up my arm to reveal the scars on my wrist. "Don't die." He mumbles. "Don't die. Don't die. Don't die."


I don't say anything. How can I? This strange man walks up to me, reveals his deepest darkest secret, then tells me not to die? Who did he think he was? Should I trust him? Or would he just break my spirit like they all did?

"Candice. I need to leave now." He whispers, standing up and letting go of my wrist. "When I come back, you better be alive, and I had better not see any more cuts on your arm." and with that, he turns around and walks away. I can't help but watch his disappearing figure, his dusty brown hair that sprouted from his scalp wildly, almost reaching the bottom of his neck. His very prominent slouch, easily noticed even more when he had his hands shoved into his pockets. He couldn't be all that bad.

And yet, I'm not sure why, but I start to cry again. I hide my face in the hospital pillow and sob, tasting my own salty tears on my tongue as they flow down my already tear-streaked face. He looked so perfect, with his delicate facial features. I looked like crap, my hair unkempt and like a wild mop, my face ugly and streaked with tears. And so there I was, crying like a spoiled child when she didn't get her way.

I want to trust him, the boy named Adam. I really do, but I'm unsure of whether or not I should. Would he betray me like all the others? Or would he become a friend, a real live friend that I haven't ever had in my entire life?