Before that day, I had always seen the world as a dream, something that never existed. And it was hard to say, if my parents were real, if my siblings were real, or if anyone was real really. I knew they were just figmants of my imagination, horrible, figmants of my imagination. I always that thought they would seep away and leave my eyes some day, that they would die first.
Who was to know, that I was going to die first?
My story starts the day that the sun barely rose, the day I lay sick in my bed, my skin pale and my eyes weak and sad. I didn't know if I was going to live, or if I was going to die, but I knew, that either way, I couldn't be living. No one cared enough to want to see me alive. I was unsure if my parents, if they were parents, even noticed that I was in pain. I mean, they got me one of those putried things that help someone breathe, but when I would be sick like this, they would take my sister out to celebrate. What for? They would celebrate that I was almost dead.
I knew they were happy, whenever I was in the hospitial, I knew. And whenever I was alright, still sick and withered, but alright, they would again leave me in the house and take my sister out. But they wouldn't celebrate that I was alright, they would celebrate that I would be sick again, and worse the next time.
The times I had gone to school I would be bullied, no friends to defend me, and to sick to defend my self. I always felt alone, like I was worthless and was taking up to much space in the world. For this I sort of repenteded against the thought of God, and Jesus, I was in no way a friend of the devil, but I wasn't a friend of God either.
I knew very well that when he had created me (if he was even real and if he even did create me) he mad imperfect, useless, and sick, so sick that everyone hated me. So, for this, I hated God, and I did not believe in Jesus. I thought they were nothing, that they were worthless and that they made me this!
The know that I'm worthless, and I knew I was going to die, but at the same time, I wanted to live. I wanted to continue my life, I wanted... to live on.
You might think that my hope was worthless, because I was worthless, and I would agree with you, I was a loser that didn't deserve to live on. I know I don't deserve to live on, I understand that, but I also know that I want to live on. I don't want to be special, I just want someone there, for me so I can live.
It's pathetic, I understand, and I know that my lasts words on this bloody paper will make people laugh, but I'm fine with that. Because, when everyone would bully me, I would cry a little, I would, but not because they bullied me, but because my parents wouldn't care, because they didn't love me, and the bullies wouldn't notice that I have a horrible illness that made me that way. I'm sorry, if I insulted you, by being sick.
I know I'm worthless, and you think to yourself why I ever tried, but I know I shouldn't have said anything.
So that's the brief explanation of why I sit on the edge of the chipped window pane, jutting from my family's crappy downtown New York apartment. My legs swang ominously through the air, laces of my sneakers swaying in the breeze. Curious, I swished my mouth a bit, and spat, the familiar pain in my sickly chest coming back from the motion. It was only a second before I could see my spit no longer.
Now aware of the distance between where I sat and the cold, hard pavement, I considered.
All I had to do was give myself a little push with my hands, and I would be plummeting through the air, and then it would all end. All of the pain, the suffering, the everday misery that I had to endure. All gone.
My fingers clenched, as I put a slight bit of pressure on them, my fingernails digging into the wooden frame. I pushed a little harder, putting my wrists into it, barely sitting on the edge of the window anymore.
I was about to give myself a little push and--
"Ellen! Open the damn door!" A rapid pounding ensued.
Great. I should've known.