three months now.
The 20th of each month is always the hardest for me. I
remember it as if it was yesterday. You told me that you were going
into surgery and there was a 85-90% chance that you would die. I
didn’t realise the absurdity of those figures till it was too
late. My best friend at the time got a message after last period
saying you weren’t going to make it. In an instant, I broke
down, tears streaming down my cheeks, my hand over my mouth
muffling my screams. I found out you lied to me later that day. I
learnt that you were alive and that it was all an act, a desperate
attempt for attention. The surgery you didn’t make up but
there was never any chance of death. I tried to commit that night.
I couldn’t understand why the person I trusted the most would
do that to me. I had told you everything. You knew how fragile and
broken I was. You had talked me out of committing before and had
even offered to forge me a note to get out of swimming because of
my scars. I was stupid. I blamed myself and the first time you
weren’t there to stop me I nearly died. I passed out to the
thoughts of “I hope he’s happy now.” I
didn’t die though. I woke up the next morning hating myself
more than ever. I had to go to school the next day and tell your
two best friends that you had lied to them. The three of us went to
see the counsellor who I saw regularly for two months
Now I have to go to school every day just to see you there smiling
and laughing and living. It hurts. It’s like I’m being
stabbed repeatedly in the heart. I have to smile and bear it.
Pretend it’s all okay because everyone else forgot about
months ago. I told you that I had forgiven you but in all honesty I
hate you. I hate you for what you did to me. I hate how you get to
be happy after you pushed me into this sea of depression.
So fck you *****, fck you