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                Hi guys! I am writing a new story and changing my account to just a normal fiction writing account. I'm sorry If this triggers anyone. It's going to start out as a sad story but it will slowly get better. I love you all and thank you so much for reading this. ❤

I can't do this anymore. It feels like the world around me is slowly dying and I'm suffocating. I don't want to live anymore. Everyone at Ice Mountain High School already thinks I'm just a good for nothing slut. I don't want to live. I don't want to eat. I don't want to breathe. I see absolutely no point in any of this at all anymore. I want to be happy for once. I don't want to have to deal or listen to other people's bullshit. I don't want to have to look the guy I like (also the boy who started the awful rumors about me) in the eyes. I'm sitting on my bed, feeling like I'm in a pool of blood. I don't know how there's any more skin left on my arms and thighs from all the cuts. I could bleed out and die. Or I could get this done faster. I look around my room for the most life-endangering object around me. A jump rope. I could hang myself with that; no. It's to cliché. A knife. I could stab myself with a knife; no. It might not kill me. My gun. The gun my dad got me to protect myself with. I could shoot myself; yes. My dad's a cop and my mom's a drug addict. They're divorced so I never really see my mom and my dad's usually at work. I have one sister who's eleven years old and never pays attention to me. No one would really notice or care. I don't have any friends left. I walk over to my dresser where I pull out the handgun from my underwear drawer and hold it tightly in my hand. I walk over to my closet, not even closing the drawer I had just opened. I pull out a box of ammunition and load the gun. I throw the almost-empty box of ammo in to the very bottom in my closet. I hold the gun in my hand. As I raise the gun to my head I realize I never even wrote a suicide note. I put the gun down on to my bed and walk over to my desk. I look on the floor of my room and see blood everywhere. I don't care at this point. My hands and legs are trembling so I sit down in to the black spin chair placed in front of my desk and pull out a piece of paper along with a black pen and being writing,

' Dear dad,

I don't want you to take this as it being your fault because it's not. I understand you have to work a lot. This is all my fault. Everyone calls me Slutty-Sammy at school. They call me that because I am a slut. I am a filthy whore. I sent nudes to a boy because he told me he was going to find a way to mentally hurt me. I was scared and didn't know what he had in mind so I sent him the nudes. He sent them to everyone at school. In fourth period at exactly 9:56 a.m. Everyone received the picture. Everyone wouldn't stop staring at me. All eyes were on me. I had no clue why they were looking at me the way they were because my phone was on silent. I decided I'd pull out my phone and pretend to be doing something productive. Then I saw I had a new message so I checked it. Then I saw it. The picture of my nude skin. You could see every tan freckle on my pale, ivory skin. They were so distinct. Everyone could tell it was me because I'm the only one in the whole school that pale skin and tan freckles. I turned my phone off, grabbed my backpack, ran to the bathroom and cried. I cried my eyes out. I punched a mirror so I could get glass to cut myself with. I hadn't cut myself in like two years. It felt like I was dead. This was Monday, November 12th. Today is Thursday, November 15th. Remember when I stayed at a friend's house on Tuesday, November 13th? I was sitting on the end of the trail near the school. The very end of the trail with a 36-foot drop. I wanted to jump. I almost did. Then I saw a small family looking at the view and I couldn't ruin it for them. There was a mom, a dad, an almost 7-year-old looking girl, and a new born child who's gender I couldn't tell in a baby carrier, they looked so happy together. I broke down because I never had that. I love you, mom, and sis so much. None of this is any of your fault. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have sent the boy the pictures. So what if he would've hurt me? I already get hurt daily anyways.

                                                                                                                                      Love, Samantha. '

I leave the paper and pen there on my desk and go back to my blood-stained bed and pick up the gun. I point it at my head and start crying. I can't do this. I can't do this. I try to put the gun down but before I can do anything my hand slipped and shot my shoulder. The last thing I remember is sitting there, trying to yell for help but then I remember no one was home. I was going to die. Everything. Went. Black.