I awoke to another grey sky, instantly putting me in another miserable mood. Goldridge town had been really grey and rainy lately. It's pretty ironic, actually. For a town named Goldridge, it wasn't very golden or sunny.

I forced myself out of bed and checked my phone. The only message was from Grayson. He made me give him my number so that we could stay in touch after he stopped me from killing myself the day before. He was the only one who knew about what happened.

I couldn't help but smile to myself. Although we'd only met yesterday, he was the only person who I could consider my friend.

Although I said before that I don't want to be friends with someone due to their pity, or because they'd feel obligated, a part of me knows his kindness towards me is genuine, and not just a mask he puts on to try and keep suicidal girls alive.

Because I'm sure there are some people out there who look at it like a challenge. They see if they can keep you from killing yourself - but for their own benefit. That way they won't be succumbed with the guilt that comes with the inability to prevent a death.

I guess it's understandable in a way, though. No one wants to feel like a murderer; not being able to save a life.

I sent Grayson a quick reply about the ice cream.

I turned off my phone and tossed it onto my bed.

******

"Bye, mom." I said, although I knew she couldn't hear me. She was passed out on the couch after her night of drinking. I'd left some Tylenol and water next to her for when she'd wake up. She'd undoubtably have a hangover; as she did every day.

My mom was an alcoholic. She'd been like that since her and my father's divorce two years ago. We weren't financially stable, since she'd spend all of her money on alcohol, which she would consume basically every minute of the day. I couldn't even think of the last time I'd seen her awake without a beer in her hand.

Our house was trash. Most rooms looked decent, besides the living room and kitchen. The living room had beer cans and bottles everywhere, with an old broken one next to the wall where she'd thrown it during one of her 'drunk tantrums.' There was even a small dent from where it had hit the wall. Our couch smelled like alcohol and I felt like the stench was slowly intoxicating me. It was covered in gross stains, mainly from her spilled drinks, but who know what else.

The kitchen had dirty dishes stacked up high next to the sink. I didn't bother washing them. I just didn't see a point knowing that soon enough, there was a possibility that I'd be dead. Our fridge wasn't as full as it should be, and there were cobwebs in every corner since it wasn't often cleaned.

I walked outside. The busy roads were enough to submerge my brain into a pool filled with suicidal thoughts. Cars... Oh, how easy it would be to jump in front of one... This wasn't anything new. Everyday I would think about it, and I won't deny that sometimes I was afraid that these thoughts would drive me insane.

I was right outside of the school when Grayson called after me.

"Amber, wait up!" He yelled.

I smiled faintly, but I couldn't help but feel slightly ashamed of myself knowing that he saw me in one of my worst states.

We continued walking into the school.

"What class do you have first?" He fiddled with the fabric of his shirt.

"History with Mr Fitzgerald." I mindlessly played with one of the belt loops on my jeans.

"Me too." He smiled.

We entered the school with five minutes to spare. Grayson sat next to me in class, paying a lot of attention to me. Maybe more than necessary, but who could blame him? He was worried about me.

After a long day at school, having a girl call me a bitch, and being shoved into a locker twice, it was finally time to get ice cream with Grayson.

"They have REALLY good strawberry ice cream," I said while continuing to eat the ice cream. "Well, their mint chocolate chip ice cream is ten times better." He pretended to flip his hair in a sassy way, and I couldn't help but laugh.

I didn't realize that my sleeves had ridden slightly up my arms until I followed his gaze down to my wrists.

"Amber... You did that to yourself?" He asked quietly, as if I was so fragile that he could've broken me if he'd spoken too loudly. I pulled my sleeves back down as my anxiety level began to rise. "Please... Let me see." He delicately pulled my sleeves up and examined the cuts. Some were old and already white, and some were newer; a crimson red.

"I'm sorry." I whispered. My hands were shaking slightly... I felt so panicky when ever someone noticed, or if I just thought someone had noticed. He lightly grazed his thumb over the cuts. "Don't be sorry, just promise me that you won't hurt yourself again," he pleaded. I pulled my sleeve back down.

"I'll try, Grayson... But I won't make a promise that I can't force myself to keep."