True P.O.V (Edited)

What is the point in being alive? This is a question that I have found myself contemplating what feels like a long time. At one point, I could have said some inspirational reason why we were alive, how it wonderful life had the potential to be. Sadly, I can't give that speech anymore, the time for that speech is long gone. I feel dead inside. I have been staring at my ceiling for what feels like forever. Time seems frozen, it always does when I'm alone. Alone with just me and my mind. Trapped. Trapped with bad thoughts, flashes from the past. Those things haunt me, never leaving me alone.

People get sad when others die, whether it be by accident or otherwise people get sad. I don't think anyone would be sad if I were to die today or any day. I have multiple siblings and I think only one of them would cry or feel bad. I don't think the rest of my family would really care. They have shown that they'd care, they never show that they care. At least, they don't when it comes to me. They'd care if it was Christin, my older brother, or one of the twins. Me though? Not what so ever.

Another thought that comes to mind is suicide being selfish. Some say it is selfish to kill yourself because of hurting others in the process. That would make sense if you had others to hurt. Like I said, my youngest sibling, my ten-year-old brother Bryan, would probably be crushed upon hearing that I'm dead. To me, suicide isn't selfish. It's the last solution, the hidden back door, the last option. My only chance at escaping the life that I am currently living, trapped in. In a way, people who force those attempting to commit suicide are more selfish. If I wanted to kill myself, keeping me alive, keeping me here, is almost as bad. Trapping me in a place that I hate. A life that is miserable. A life where I feel alone, surrounded by people who simply don't care. For someone else, suicide is selfish. To others, it is an escape. It's going to be my escape.

It isn't as if I haven't been planning this for a while. Ever since New Years, I have been planning to kill myself before my sixteenth birthday, which is on January 30th. I get that that isn't a lot of time to change your mind but it turns out that I didn't need even a month to throw in the towel and give up hope. Crap happens. Things you anticipated to get better doesn't and it leaves a chain of reasons to die behind in its place and it builds up until you can't handle it anymore. Because I can't handle it anymore. I just can't.

I force my eyes away from the ceiling and around my room, glancing at it for what I hoped would be one of the last times I would ever have to look at this pitiful excuse of a room. My family wasn't poor but my room begged to differ that fact. My room small, smaller than my siblings, heck smaller than my siblings closest. My room was about the size of a small office, or a large master bathroom, if not smaller. My siblings had large rooms, filled with items gifted to them by our parents. My room was filled with the bare minimum. Some would have called it favoritism but it's beyond that point. You can't justify why they hate me anymore. I don't I think you ever could.

Maybe it was because I simply never fit in within my family. The only one of my family members that I even slightly resemble was my mother and younger sister, Madisyn, who was one of the twins. I looked a whole lot like my mother, Jenna. She was a beautiful woman with flowing blonde locks that seemed to flow as if her hair was a wave. I took after her look wise. I got her blonde hair if mine isn't a more platinum version of hers. I got her green eyes, something none of my siblings got. They all took after our father, brown hair and brown eyes, well except Madisyn who had more blonde than brown hair. That alone made me stand out, it didn't help that I was naturally paler than my family, my mother included. They were all nicely tanned when I couldn't tan for the life of me. It was unfortunate, sometimes I envied their tan skin. Sometimes I knew it wasn't something worth being envious of.

I never fit in regardless of my looks. Instead of being a fitting image of my older brother Christin, I turned out the opposite. I wasn't my brother and that's exactly what my father wanted me to be, a perfect replica. A younger version of my brother, when that didn't happen, he gave up on me, shining my siblings in love and care and me in nothing but a cold shoulder. I once went to my parents seeking praise for small things, good grades, chores being completed, but they didn't care. I don't think they ever really did, to begin with.

I make myself get out of my small twin sized bed, making sure that I don't ruffle the bed sheeting, as it was the easiest thing in the world to mess up and I wanted the last thing I laid on, my bed, to be neat. I don't think someone would want to die on an object that was horribly messy. If I'm allowed to choose how I die and where I want it to be in my room, neatly on my bed. It's a simple request that I am going to pull through.

Logically, you wouldn't leave a depressed and suicidal teenager home alone, not knowing what they might do and yet, no is home. My mother took the twin and Bryan out to a mid-day movie and is taking them shopping afterward, more than likely to buy them something that will make them look like a posh family like my mother thinks they are in her head. My older brother is out doing who knows what and my father was out doing something that involved his oh so important job.

I walk the short distance from my bed to the door and walk out of my bedroom to head straight to the bathroom to grab the items that I needed. It had taken a lot of thought, deciding how I wanted to die. It's an important decision. One not to be taken lightly. In the end, I choose pills. To be particular, I choose Advil and my older brothers left overdosage of anti-depressants that he left so casually inside the medicine cabinet in our shared bathroom. It was a poor decision on his part, since not only him and I shared a bathroom but Michael also shared that bathroom with us. Luckily, I don't think Michael is suicidal like me. I don't think any of my siblings will ever be as suicidal as me.

I walk into the shared bathroom seeing nothing that showed that this was my bathroom, my toothbrush was in one of the drawers, my hairbrush was in my bedroom, and I simply used a small amount of Michaels shampoo and used a small amount of Christin's body wash. In a way, my entire existence in this house went ignored or unnoticed. I was used to it being that way.

Unlike the many other times that I walked into the bathroom, I had a true purpose behind it. My eyes darted to the medicine cabinet. I promptly walked over to the cabinet. I opened the small medicine cabinet. Ours, like many others, was hidden behind the mirror in front of the two-person sink. I opened the medicine cabinet to see headache medicines, stomach medicine and scanned over all the bottles until my eyes locked on the two that I was looking for. My brothers anti-depressants and Advil, a deadly mix when combined. My deadly mix. I grabbed a small cup from the sink, and almost silently filled it with water. I glanced up into the mirror for a moment and paused, just glancing at my reflection.

My eyes were red, from previously crying. My eyes had dark circles surrounding them, showing how tired I was. I don't sleep well at night anymore. My cheekbones were kind of sunken in. I didn't look completely healthy. I don't eat well either, I'm not anorexic but I don't eat like I should, like I know I should anyway. My hair, once healthy looking, looked dead.

I looked awful. I force myself to look away from my reflection with a small sigh. I look awful, I always have but I looked worse than I usually did at this exact moment alone. I felt disgusted for myself. I turn away from the mirror, taking the cup of water, the two bottle of pills and walk out of the bathroom, flicking the lights off behind me as I leave the bathroom for the last time.

I walk back into my bedroom, gently closing the door behind me. A small clock sat next to my bed on a small side table that I had paid for, for ten dollars. I walk over to my bed and sit down. I put the cup of water on my side table.

This is it. I thought as I looked down at the pill bottles in my lap. They laid on my lap, harmless as could be but in a few moments, I was about to make them more powerful, more dangerous. Dangerous enough to take a life. No one's going to care. I know that much. I've thought this through so much I know that nothing is going to change once I'm gone other than the fact that I'm gone.

In a rush, I uncap the two pill bottles and lay the many small pills in my hands, the color difference between the color of the pills made the Advil stand out next to the bland white anti-depressants. I grab the cup of water and one by one swallow each pill until I ran out. There hadn't been a lot of Advil left so I used what I had.

I set the cup back down with a shaky hand, tossing the now empty pill bottles onto the floor not caring about where they ended up. I lay down on the bed, taking a few deep breaths and wait for the effects of the pills to kick in. It didn't take long. I knew it wouldn't. It started as small shivers racked through my body before those shivers worsened to me full out shaking. My head began to pound from an oncoming headache that didn't seem to go away, only worsen. My eyes tried to dart around the room but I tried and managed to force my eyes to remain stuck on the ceiling.

The bland ceiling . . .

I must have fallen unconscious because the next thing I saw couldn't have been real. I was back in the living room, but it was an older version of it. The entire living room looked a whole ten years younger. Photos of me and Chris were hung up on the wall, proudly. I glanced around looking towards the kitchen only to see a cloudy haze preventing me from seeing beyond the living room.

"True stop it!" A voice says, snapping my attention to the voice where I finally noticed people in the room. I saw myself but younger. Maybe four-years-old, standing over two small bundles, one pink, the other blue. I instantly knew that the two bundles were Madisyn and Michael but as babies. I didn't remember this. This had to have been a very long time ago. Maybe it was from when we were actually a happy family.

I walked over to the scene generally curious. My mother was usually angry with me, but here, she was sending me a soft smile, her scolding going completely unnoticed by me, who was continuing to slowly point my finger at my baby siblings and hoping one of them would grab onto my finger.

Suddenly baby Madisyn reached out and grabbed my small chubby pointer finger. A giggle escapes the two of us, and the scene slowly rolls on as the fogs close on us as another set of noise starts off behind me causing me to turn away from the slowly fading memory and I turn towards another one, one I could actually remember.

I was in my old fourth-grade classroom, and I could remember the exact lesson we had been learning. I remember thinking it was stupid. I watched as nine-year-old me took notes quietly, while other kids chattered quietly, and suddenly I remember why this memory was so important. A book, one of the textbooks we were taking notes from, was flung towards me, hitting me in the back. I remember wincing quietly before the book fell onto the floor and made a quiet noise which got looks sent to me. I turned around in my seat to glare at whoever through the book and glared at the person, another nine-year-old boy named Union.

He glared back. I didn't know that this would start a never-ending cycle of bullying. Union would bully me when seventh grade starts.

Slowly this scene fades like the previous one and I was almost thankful before I recognized the sounds coming from the next flash of memory and I wished I could go back to one of the other memories.

I turned slowly and faced a new memory.

I saw myself sitting on the floor, playing with a set of used legos that Christin once owned but passed down to me when he no longer found them entertaining. I was attempting to build a palace out of the small blocks and I had been enjoying myself until I was startled out of my happy daze when I heard my father yelling loudly from downstairs.

"TRUE GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!" My father had screamed. Being young and easily frightened, I rushed down the stairs to where my father was standing my twelve-year-old backpack in his hands, my fathers face red with anger.

"Why was your backpack left where someone could fall over it?" My father asked with false calmness.

I was shocked at the moment, my younger self had been anyway. I didn't know what to say and that seemed to anger my father worse because before I knew it, my backpack is dropped onto the floor and my father's hand swings and smacks me in the face hard. The force of the smack sent me to the floor. I stared up at my father shocked. He may have hated me but he never smacked me before. I watched as younger me rushed back up the stairs, his backpack in his hands. The scene slowly disappeared and instead of another scene taking its place, the world slowly went black, leaving me alone, again.

This time, forever.