Ruth’s Story

Dried blood stained my wrists, tears left that sticky sensation on my cheeks and my throat was parched as I woke up from my failed suicide attempt. The lacerations were mostly superficial, I know it was more, a cry of attention than a genuine try at my own euthanasia. Everybody was crowding around me as I came to, concerned with my own state of health. My mother cried as she hugged me, my aunt reprimanded me for trying to take my own life, she was stopped soon enough by my uncle who got into a quarrel with her for not consoling me instead. Bah.. they did not understand my anger, I hated everyone, I hated my parents, I hated my siblings, I hated everybody in school, I only liked Avril Lavigne and her music, oh and Adam Lazarra from Taking Back Sunday.

I was kept in a ward for observation, the doctor’s diagnosis revealed “stress” and “depression” after a quick psychiatric evaluation. The time alone allowed me quiet moments to write some goth poetry.

<>A razor is unlike a scythe
Turning into my crimson reaper
A midnight soiree
A morning release
Remnants of last night’s disease
Nobody loves me anymore, Nobody… Nobody…

That was my ode to self-mutilation, it belonged to my personal diary where I scribbled paragraphs of angst and hatred. I was discharged the next day as I had to grudgingly make my way to school. Nobody knew where I had been the past few days, they thought I was down with chicken pox, obviously covered up by my mother. A classmate, Joshua, said hi cheerfully to me, unaware that I found him disgusting. He was such a poser, he yearned for acceptance by the more popular crowd in school and everybody knew of the torch he held for Farah, that bitch. She thinks she’s “more Avril Lavigne” than me, she’s such a goth poser and what I would give to drag her face a few hundred metres in gravel until is is cut up beyond recognition. Everybody hates me, I am so misunderstood.