A/N: So this one came to me (I gotta stop new shit and work on my multi-chapter stories, for fuck's sake) earlier this afternoon. Inspired by the song, 'The Diary' by Hollywood Undead.
Warnings for suicide.
Summary: I don't wanna be like this. The further I go, the more I wanna go home…
I swear that I care. I really do. But it's hard to, especially when every waking moment I'm staring at the bottom of an empty bottle. Cuts lining my arms, tears running down my cheeks, I lie in my bed trying to think of a reason to get up.
But instead, I sit there. I sit there for hours crying and thinking about everything that went wrong. Is there an answer for it all? Or am I just a fuck up?
I hear my mother knock on my door, poking her head inside the room that smells of the whiskey I drank the night before. "Baby, why?"
I don't answer her. How can I, when I've caused her so much pain?
I hear her leave, closing the door behind her, and I roll over in my bed to reach for another bottle to go back to sleep. I swear they get warmer every time I hold them.
No matter how I drink, I can't go back to sleep. So I stumble to my feet only to fall into the puddle of my tears on the ground.
I don't wanna to be like this. The further I go, the more I wanna to go home. I try to climb back up, to rebuild myself anew, but this climb is too steep for me.
I'm so sick of this. I'm sick of this shit.
I've got nothing left. There's nothing for me to lose. My hand finds the knife I used to cut, shaking as I grip the smooth handle.
With it in hand, I plunge it into my chest, twisting. A soft gasp of pain leaves my lips and my hand falls away from the knife. I roll over onto my back, looking up out of the window. I hope when they bury me, I'm buried deep. Deep in the ground where I belong.
Dear diary, today's the day I die.
A/N: Thank you for reading.
-A Lovestruck A2