Lonely Lost & Found

Chapter Two: Party Night

I woke up freezing, I didn't know where the fuck I was or what happened.
That was, until my eyesight came into proper focus.
I groaned, looking around my room, groaning once again when I realized I was still fucking naked and my wrist bled down my arm and all over my carpet. There goes my deposit, unless I could find a really good carpet cleaner. 

I looked out the window, seeing that it was still dark. I looked at my alarm clock on the side table as it read 4:56 AM.
I sighed, shaking my head at my stupid self, got up, grabbed the same towel I'd just dried off with and took myself back into the bathroom. 
See. They were right. I couldn't do anything right. I couldn't control when my stupid broken heart would act up, but still. I was born with the inability to do anything right, even something as basic as having a functioning heart that most people were able to have without even thinking about it, let alone think of how lucky they were that they could manage that much.

I finished my shower and looked at my cuts. I really did go deep this time. I wondered how much of my blood painted that godforsaken page. 
I dried myself off and wrapped gauze around my wrist before taking on my next task of getting dressed.
I wore a black t shirt with a dark red hoodie over it, faded jeans, my dark red beanie, and like usual, my vans. I sat down on my bed since I had more than plenty of time to get to school. I looked at my notebook which remained open and covered.
The blood was dry, and it was definitely a lot. You could make out the word 'Tuesday' and some other words along the  way, but it was mostly just a dark red page now. 
I smiled a little.
I flipped it to the next page.

'Wednesday.

I doubt today will be better. I almost don't want it to be, nor do I expect it to be. 
I'm not eating lunch again at school. I'll eat a good breakfast at home and maybe I'll be hungry for dinner. I doubt it, but maybe. I promise journal, I don't avoid eating. I love food, I'm just never hungry anymore.
I remember when I used to be excited for when mom cooked for me, and when we'd go out for dinner.
I remember when my family got along, but that was before my brother died, but you know I don't often talk about him, and that was before my own depression was just bringing them down with me to the point of them actually allowing me to move out on my own before I was 18. I appreciated that though, of course. I don't want to be there as much as they don't want me there.
It's not like we don't get along, we just don't see each other often. It's better that way.

I heard people talking about a party on Monday, it's supposed to be happening on Friday night. I doubt I'll be invited, but who knows. Maybe I'll get lucky.
Or maybe someone will invite me to humiliate me. Dump booze on me. Trip me. Beat me. The list of possible things could go on and on, but then again.... I am really lonely. The fact that you, my gorgeous leatherbound journal, are my only friend makes me sad. Appreciative of you, but sad.

I'm sorry to say it, but if you're blood covered again, I'm sorry. This time I'll use the right wrist though. My left one is pretty pissed off at me.

I don't know why I talk about you like this though. Like I'm talking to you.
I guess I am.
I'm also talking to myself.
Fuck, I really am crazy.
I'll call and see if my insurance covers therapy of any sort. I don't want it, but I'm spiraling down a dark rabbit hole that I'm afraid I won't get out of.
I tried suicide once. You wouldn't remember because I hadn't taken up writing in you, yet. 
I was 13, and I couldn't deal with anything anymore. I wasn't getting proper treatment for my heart, I hadn't gotten the procedure yet, I was getting repeatedly tested on over and over and over, my panic attacks were getting worse, my depression was making me so fucking angry at everyone and everything, then sobbing the next...I tried to hang myself in the fucking garage. It almost worked had my mom not caught me and flipped the fuck out. She sent me to therapy then of course, but I wasn't talking. I refused to. I was embarrassed.
I think I might be ready to now though. I think. Maybe not. I'll think about it.
What's there really to talk about? My family is basically broken apart, my brother literally killed himself with booze, I stayed up all night long listening to them fight before he went back to the UK, and I cried all fucking night. I loved my brother. He and I were so close. Then he left. Then he died. No goodbye, no anything. I wonder if he's ashamed of me like everyone else is. 
Dad doesn't like the fact that I'm gay. Mom doesn't care. She just doesn't want me to off myself. 
I guess I can't blame her for that.

Let's hope I don't have to paint your pages again.

Keep it together, Alex.'

I didn't want to go to school.
I didn't want to face humiliation anymore.
Four years of this.
Not many people hated me in middle school, but I had friends then. Until I tried to kill myself that is. I tried to put on a brave face, but it never worked, and so I lost my friends. I guess they weren't really friends in the first place.

I went into my kitchen and looked at what was in my fridge. Milk. Eggs. Cheese. Some vegetables.
Cool. I'll make an omelet.
I got to work on that, taking my time because A, I liked to cook and cook well, and B, I wanted to go slow so I had something other than what would inevitably happen today to focus on.
I really was an okay cook. My omelet was perfect.
I sat down at my little table with a cup of coffee and my omelet, putting some hot sauce on it.
I checked my phone while I ate, reading facebook posts from people I used to know and didn't anymore.
I hadn't posted anything for a while, other than sharing stupid and depressing dreams so I made a post.
"Hi Facebook." I hit post.

Stupid. I doubted anyone would reply. Hell, I wondered if anyone would even see it, due to facebook's algorithm and whatever it did to people's posts. I didn't know.
I had an instagram too, but I hadn't put a picture up since two months ago.
I thought about it and wondered if I should take a picture. I looked alright today. 
I had some followers who knew me back when I was just a little kid looking forward to the future in the UK. They occasionally talked to me here and there, which was kinda nice, but I wouldn't call them friends. I didn't know them apart from pictures on Instagram.
I took at least 25 pictures before I found one that looked right, one that didn't display my slightly swollen lip from it getting knocked into my teeth yesterday. It wasn't obvious to anyone but me, but still. I didn't want anyone to notice it anyway.