crash&burn.

   Everyone is screaming at me. Unsurprisingly, I’ve screwed up again. Ruined everything again. I had knives. My knives were found.
Dad is angry, the veins along his neck are popped out and his face is tomato red. “God, let’s just send her to live with Aaron. At least he might know how to deal with this shit.”
I can’t tell if I’m laughing or sobbing at that. I do know I‘m shaking, little pieces of terror spinning under my skin. “Right! Right, good plan! Are you stupid? Fucking idiot!”
   “I HATE YOU, GOD, YOU LITTLE BITCH.” Mom.
I find it funny for some reason. I want to laugh, cackling, peeling laughter that will make everyone go away. “GOOD! GOOD! GREAT. BECAUSE I HATE YOU TOO, FUCKING BITCH.”
   She lifts a book, throws it. I duck and the book’s spine cracks against the wall.
“DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME. YOU FUCKING BITCH. DON’T TOUCH ME. IF YOU FUCKING HIT ME I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU.”
   I kick her in the chest when she tries to come close. She coils over.
“Fuck this, I’m calling the cops. I’m not dealing with her anymore.” Dad starts dialing, goes on the porch. I hear him painting the picture of a girl who is beating up her mother and raging and screaming death threats.
    Mom is standing again, screaming at me. 
A bottle is thrown. I duck, again. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME. DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME.”
“I CAN TOUCH YOU ALL I WANT. THE COPS ARE COMING, ARIANNA. THEY’RE GOING TO PUT HANDCUFFS ON YOU AND TAKE YOU TO JAIL. AND YOU’RE NOT COMING BACK TO MY FUCKING HOUSE. YOU WILL NEVER LIVE HERE AGAIN.”
“GOOD. I FUCKING HATE YOU ANYWAY. I’M SICK OF YOU. ANYWHERE IS BETTER THAN YOU, BITCH.”
   When the cops show up, get the whole story [“She’s insane. She’s gone crazy. She’s out of control. She’s got a record of mental illness.”]. They tell my parents  that they can’t take me to juvenile hall because I’m ‘mentally ill’. They can do hospital transport but Mom does not want me in a hospital so they leave.
   Dad goes to bed. Mom goes in the garage to smoke.
   Everything is wrongwrongwrong, I’m curled up on the couch. I’m wrong. I’m bad. I’m poison. I ruined everything again. I always ruin things. I can’t stop crying. The anger is gone now, nothing left but sadness. I sob for two hours. Mom comes back in, asks me why I’m crying.
   “Can I please talk to Dakota?” I choke out. “I really need to talk to a friend. Please.”
That just makes her angry. “No, you’re not talking to FUCKING DAKOTA. She’s sick, Arianna. All your fucking freak friends are sick. You’re never talking to her again. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Please. Pleasepleaseplease. She could help me.”
“Oh yeah, ‘help’ you. I think she’s ‘helped’ you enough, considering you’re fucking insane. I swear, I wish you’d never met Dakota or Tiger. They can both fall off the face of the fucking planet for all I can. They can both die. ” She storms out, slamming the door.
If it weren’t for Dakota and Tiger, I would be long gone. Both of them have pulled me back into the real world when I’m falling over the edge. Both of them have stayed up with me when I’m crying, making sure I’m okay. Both of them have helped me more than I could ever say.
   I needed someone so badly last night. I needed to talk to someone. I needed Tiger. I needed to talk to her because she can somehow make everything okay again. I needed someone who wouldn’t scream at me, someone would wouldn’t say they hated me.
All I could think about was going into my room, taking out my razorblades, and cutting very deep into my wrist. I wanted to slash the vein. I just wanted to stop existing. I wanted to stop being in a place where everyone hates me. I wanted to not have to fight and scream anymore. I wanted to sleep for a million years. Who I am seems like such a mistake. Every part of me is rotten, decaying. Every day I’m awful and I ruin everything. Every day I cause drama. Nothing can ever save me. Nothing can change what I am, nothing can wipe clean all my mistakes and failures. I’m a mess. I can’t stand to hurt everyone anymore. I can’t watch myself, like watching a movie, tearing everyone around me apart and causing pain. I can’t stand to be so selfish.
   When Mom comes back I’m still crying.
“Please just let me go. Please. I promise you’ll be happier without me. Ipromiseipromiseipromiseipromise.”
“Arianna, everything is going to be okay.” She’s not in screamingihateyou mode right now. She’s in ohi’mtheperfectmotheriloveyou mode. She lays a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please.” I can’t stand being touched. There’s a very short list of people that I don’t mind being touched by. Tiger, Dakota,  sometimes Amanda.
“Everything is going to be okay. You can wake up tomorrow and it will be a new day.”
It only makes me sob more to think that I have to get up tomorrow. The idea of another day is too tiring. The fact I have to do this all again is too much to bear.

   It’s yesterday’s tomorrow now and I don’t feel any better. Crying is supposed to make you feel better, right? I just feel drained.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Everything seems hopeless. I can’t talk to Tiger, the only person who can put me back together. I can’t go out and get a break, I’m not allowed to be out of my parent’s sight. I can’t change all that’s wrong with me, I can stop for a while but it just comes back twice as bad.
I know I’m only fifteen and any adults that might read this will probably just say ‘oh, these problems will pass. you’re just a kid.’ But I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lives. I feel one-hundred years old, tired and defeated. I have nothing left for anyone. I’m drained completely dry. I don’t have enough left. I can’t keep going. Out of fuel, out of gas, out of the will to even keep running.
  I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay. I want to be with Tiger. I want to see her getting better and smiling and growing up, I want to be there for all the ups and downs. I want to hold her regardless of whether she’s laughing or crying. I promised I would never leave her, never let her be alone. I keep my promises to her.
   I just want to feel better. I just want to sleep. I want to not be such a fucking failure. I want to be the daughter I’m supposed to be, quiet and docile [not crying, not raging, not anything but a plastic doll], perfect grades and talented and pretty and thin. I want to be something other than me. I want something I can never have.
   It’s not my parents’ fault. They yelled because they’re sick of me. I’m sick of me, too. They called the cops because they’re tired of having me ruin everything. They hate me because I’ve earned it. People reading this will probably disagree with me, but none of you have lived with me. None of you have seen how tiring, how frustrating I am.
There’s nothing left to write. Nothing left to say. I’m out of magic words to fix things [not that I ever had them in the first place]. I’m out of colours to paint the world with. I’m out of options [I have no money, I can’t leave. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone, I can’t get relief.]. I’m out of ’imsorrys’ and ’imokays’.  I’m out of time, all the sand in the hourglass is gone. The clock stopped ticking.
I’m empty. I’m empty and hollow. I’m stripped bare of everything. I have no will to write. No want to draw. I have to force myself to do those things now. I used to love them. I have no interests left. Reading bores me. Horseback riding doesn’t make me feel like I’m on top of the world. Hiking makes me tired. Singing takes too much from me, too much breath and effort. Music is just noise that passes through one ear and out the other.

I feel so awful. I feel drained. I have nothing. I am nothing.