Help Me Feel

Hey guys!

So, this is a new idea I've been working on! It's darker and definitely different than my usual style, but I really wanted to write it because, honestly, I needed to. I can't really explain why, but I felt like I need my own outlet, and this is it. It's going to be serious, and I don't think I'm going to do any author's notes at the beginning or the end of a chapter unless I 100% have to. It's a really serious story compared to what I usually do.

I will say that I have never, and will never, cut. If you are, or you know someone who is, please find help. It's a serious matter that can lead to death, or other serious problems.

Also, if it's needed, contact a suicide prevention hotline, talk to someone, anyone about your problems. Hell, talk to me or someone else on Wattpad. Suicide should never be an answer, and if it is, GET HELP. Please, for the sake of even that one person who might care about you at all, get help.

Alright, that's it for this note. So, I hope you like the story, even if it isn't my usual style.

<3

I remember a lot of things that have happened throughout my life. However, there are two situations that will stand out forever.

 The first was the event that triggered everything else; the day my mother took a gun, put it in her mouth, and pulled the trigger. I still remember the ringing in my ears as her body fell, the gun landing God knows where. I still remember the way my father had screamed, cried, pleaded for this to be a nightmare. I remember the way he called for an ambulance, even as her eyes glazed over.

 I'd been six-years old. Terrified, unsure what was happening, and wanting my daddy to hug me.

 He didn't. He never did again. The ambulance arrived too late, after he'd stared helplessly at my mother's body. He hadn't said anything as they put her in a bag and loaded her into a van. He hadn't said a word. He didn't say anything until after the funeral, and the first thing he said to me was, “I'm going out.”

 That was it. Six-years old, and my father began ignoring me. He'd left me alone in the house that night. I'd curled up on my bed, holding my teddy bear, and cried. I'd cried for my daddy, wishing he'd come back and scare the monsters and bad dreams away. But he hadn't. He'd stayed out all night before coming home sometime as the sky was lighting up, and sat in his room with tears running down his face.

 After that, going out was routine. I somehow learned to reach the boxes of cereal, learned how to eat them without milk. As time wore on, I learned how to make different eggs, cook bacon. My father started talking a little more, but just enough to tell me he was going out of town for work, that he'd send groceries to the house once a week through online shipping.

 It took a total of four years for all this to happen. I was ten, and knew how to handle myself. I'd had to learn.

 The second day I'll always remember is the day I gave up. I'd been bullied every day at school, though God only knows why, and at the age of twelve, it became too much.

 It had been the day I'd decided I was done. Forever. I knew that day that I couldn't handle this world, this life anymore. I'd just wanted out of it, out of everything. I'd needed release.

 I remember that it was almost instinctual, reaching for the knife in the kitchen and dragging it smoothly across my wrist.

 I barely even realized what had happened until I saw the blood flowing into the sink, dark red clearly visible against the white tiles. The sight had helped, cooled the fire inside me. The dark thoughts of suicide, of being done forever, eased up, and I'd understood in that second. Cutting had worked. Ithad made me feel something other than the daily emotional trauma that was my life. I'd learned that if it was on the surface, the pain was slightly different; it was better.

 I'd stared at the steadily growing stain, and something in me had said no.

 That was also the day I realized I didn't want to die. Not by suicide, at least. If I died, it was going to be a sickness or old age, or even an accident. It wasn't going to be my own hand.

 But I'd found a way out, without death being necessary. I'd found the secret to getting through the day.

 The edges of my vision had grown slightly blurry, and I'd hurried to cover the cut, taking more paper towels than necessary. I'd applied some pressure, somehow knowing that would help.

 I'd wrapped a bandage around the cut, washed the knife, and put it back, knowing that no one would ever be able to know what I'd done. It was my secret, my only outlet, and that was the way it would have to be for the rest of my miserable life.

 The third day that I will never forget is more recent, and the whole reason behind why I'm where I am today.

 Forever, I will remember the day I met Brandon Hemings. It was the day that changed my life in the best, and the worst, way.

A/N:

Alright, there's the Prologue. I normally won't do these, but I felt like I needed one on this.

Let me know if you like it! Um, also, if you can figure out which genre this should be in other than Teen Fiction, let me know!

And no, it won't belong in Romance... Sorry for the disappointment there.

<3