*Authour's note; Blood Stains and Burn Marks consists of several trigger warnings*
It never use to be like this. White walls full of broken promises. Pale skin full of countless scars. I use to be happy. But somewhere along the lines of my mother's death, my sister's suicide, and my father's disappearance, my life fell a little off track. For the longest time I blamed my father for leaving a child so young and naive, at the hands of yet another child who could barely take care of herself. Though now I don't blame him, because my sister and I use to be quite the handful. She'd constantly come home drunk, reeking of cigarette smoke and fake love. And I would always come home bruised and beaten from yet another fight I started and lost. I guess he just couldn't take it anymore after my mother died. I don't remember much of her since I was so young when she passed. And it didn't help that my father didn't speak of her often. He didn't keep up pictures or speak of memories of her either. Almost like he wished he could forget her himself. All I can really remember is them arguing over countless mistakes. After my sister committed suicide I couldn't withstand the pain no longer. I had tried holding it in, which only resulted in more agony and grief. I tried forgetting. Tried moving on but nothing seemed to work. I needed release. I needed comfort. And that cold piece of crimson metal did it all.