Always alone, always in the dark, always lost; it’s been like this for about a year now, the pain and suffering never leaves me. I can’t find myself looking in a mirror; as if I’m just looking right through myself, I’m looking at nothing. You could pretty much call me lifeless, just here to die. Meaninglessly put here to slowly die, I can’t wait for that day. I wish for it going to sleep, beg the lord for it each morning, but here I am, still imagining the day I finally die everyday. Sometimes I’ll play the entire scene out in my head; getting hit by a care maybe, or falling off of the lawn mower and screaming with fear as it runs me over, I’ve even imagined being murdered—shot by a thug, because I wouldn’t give up my money. The day I finally don’t have to feel anything anymore and I can finally forget I long for day in and day out. But no one knows, no one is aware that since I was fourteen I’ve been dreaming up my death, praying for it. This is my secret, only mine.

The scars, they never go away; a reminder as to why I’ll never be normal. The answers for why I can never smile. The apparent reason for why I can never be a person. I’m ugly, I’m pathetic, and I’m nothing.

That’s why it happened; because I’m worthless and for everyday that has followed I’ve spent my evening lying here in this uncomfortable leather body chair, staring up at the blank, white ceiling tiles. Often running my hand across the sides of my cheek, pushing the invisible hair out of my eyes, to lower the level of awkwardness; I hate being here, yet for eight months I’ve been coming here, tested on my level of schizophrenia. I’m not crazy, but I’m not going to try and convince him of that; I’ve heard the ‘once you come to terms with yourself and who you are, you will except it, but until than you wont ever be able to grab hold of your sanity,’ speech far to many times to really care at this point.

I slid my hand down the side of my leg, scratching at my ankle and he looks at me funny, as if this is something he’s never seen anyone do before. His pen moves down the paper, slowly scanning each word, and once he find what he looking for he jots a few words down. His eyes return to me, “Melanie, you can talk, that’s why you’re here. You can tell me anything you want, and it will stay between the two of us.” That was never the case, he’ll tell, I know it.

At home, my room is my sanctuary. The silver lock stays nicely turned to the right, locking me in and the world out. My mother doesn’t ‘allow’ this, but everything she says I simply ignore. I hate her more than anything; sometimes I imagine her death, silently wishing she’d fall dead.

Her hands are quiet, her knock soft—almost as dark as the pitch night, “Melanie, unlock your door; don’t make me break this door.” Her threats were nothing; they didn’t faze me an inch. “I swear, Melanie Ann!” She stormed away, complete opposite of when she first walked up. I don’t care. My room is mine; just like her life is hers. She stays out of my room; I stay out of her life, I thought we had established this, obviously not.

For hours I stared up at my black walls. It was pretty intriguing to me as to how even in the darkest night; some things could seem slightly darker than others. This was probably the only thing that ever kept my attention, or than really mattered to me.

School is as always, a drag. Everyday I was mocked, by people who I use to call my friends. They would laugh at the way I walked, how my shoulders slumped and I always kept my face down, my deep brown curls covering my entire front side, down to my waist at least. I use to always get commented on how my hair was so beautiful, than I stopped brushing it, and washing it and everyone seemed to stay a few feet from me walking down the halls. And that’s all I want; no one touching me or looking at me, or even saying my name, I just want to be left alone.

My teachers look at me as if I’m some disgusting animal that they have to deal with. I don’t do my work, and I don’t pay attention, school is pointless and I’d rather be locked away in a room alone than go.

My psychiatrist constantly asks me the same questions each time I enter his office. Wondering why I never smile. Why I never shower. And why I always look like I want to hurt someone. I raise my shoulders, roll my eyes, and lie back in the chair. Counting each second as it goes by, desperately wanting to be in my room, in the dark. His office is always so bright and I always leave, rubbing my temples—trying to get rid of my migraine.

My eyes closed and I threw my arm over my eyes; routine.

His clipboard slammed down on his desk, “Darn it, Melanie,-” I sat up quickly, a little scared. I was trying to catch up to his words, but he seemed to be speaking more quickly than I could think. “-eight months, eight full months last week, but you’ve told me nothing. I have tried talking to you, reasoning with you. I’ve been persuasive, but still, you never say a word! But not today, today you are going to talk! You’re going to let me in a little big, it’s all I ask.” I sat there, dumbfounded for a few seconds. I stuttered out the word ‘I’ for a second, than went silent. I didn’t know what to think. He’d never raised his voice like this before.
For a minute I was confused, than I got furious and I could feel my blood pressure rise. I lost control of my patients and just started yelling right back at him.
“You wouldn’t know, you don’t and you never will! I hate you, I hate being here, and I HATE HIM!” I accidentally let my secret slip, and I shut up.

“Him? Melanie, who is him? You can tell me, please talk to me.” He looked desperate, hunting for any possible word from me. And I began to cry, it was the first time I’d cried since that night. My knees hit the ground and I lost control of myself.


I was about to tell a secret I’ve been harboring inside for a year, burrowing myself keeping it inside. I was suffocating myself, slowly killing myself, inside out. “It was a year ago. She brought him home, trusted him. He talked to me, told me I was the prettiest girl he knew. He smiled at me, made me eggs for breakfast.” I was sobbing, and he leaned down and touched my shoulder. I jumped back, half way across the room by the time he looked up. I wiped my eyes and stormed out of his office.


He’s going to tell, I know it. He’ll tell her, and she can’t know. My mother wont believe him anyways, or me. She never does; everything I say I just ‘make up to get attention.’ I hated myself for telling him, for letting him into my head, he tricked me and I let him. I’m so stupid.


I ran home, thirty minutes before my appointment was scheduled to be over. Mother was at home, and by that time, my face was clear of tears, and I was back to my hateful self.


She looked depressed; about to cry, she coughed and cleared her throat, than narrowed her eyes at me. Her eyebrows pushed together. “What are you doing here, what happened to Dr. Mayem?”

“Um, he let me leave early. Said I needed a break.” Lying came easily for me, after a lot of practice, my facial expression hardly changed. She seemed to believe my lie, and without another word, I walked away.


The basement door opened smoothly, and I walked down four stairs and I shivered when my feet touched the cold concrete. The phone cord was hanging at the bottom of the stairs, and I pulled the clear piece out of the phone. This was the only phone we had; the only way that doctor had anyway to get in touch with my mother. Or him.


If Dr. Mayem told my mother, she would tell him, and he’d probably do it again. He threatened me, told me I would regret it if I ever told anyway. Than he took his hand off of my mouth, and left me alone in my dark room.


I never told my mother, and she married him, and it’s happened eleven more times since, and I hate her more and more everyday. She knew something was wrong, I changed, but she never asked. She just says it’s a ‘thing’ that I’ll grow out of sooner or later.


I was on my way back up stairs, when he stopped me. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into my room, I could feel a chill go down my back, I knew what was about to happen; the twelfth time. “Your mom just left won’t be back for a while; looks like we can have a little fun in the mean time.”


I was crying, struggling to get free, but his hands were so big, so strong, nothing I need helped me. Probably only made it worse. His grip on my arms left them throbbing when he let go. My shirt ripped when he took it off, and I could feel the button on my jeans pop off. I tried kicking him off of me, but it was no use. I tried screaming, I pleaded through his hand for him to get off. Attempted reasoning with him with my eyes, but he just stared at me and smiled this slimy crooked smile, I hated it so much. After I became tired of fighting with him, and could no longer move, I just laid there, waiting on it to be over. My fingers curled around my sheets and I closed my eyes tight.


God, I thought. Please let it before soon, please. I could feel wet stuff running down my thighs and I wanted to throw up, I could feel it building in my stomach, about to come up. Than, finally he got off of me and rolled over on my bed. I curled up into a ball and rolled onto my side, crying. “Oh, shut up. You should be use to this by now.” That’s what he’s said every time after the third time.


I sat up watching my door shut behind him as he walked out. My head was between my knees and I cried naked on my bed.


This time was worse than all the other times, it hurt a lot more and I didn’t know why. I just want to die. I can’t take this anymore, I want to die! “God please!” I began to beg Him. “Just let me die, take me please. Why are you doing this to me?” I’ve always believed in God, every since I was little. I’ve never understood how he would let this happen to someone who loved him, but I never stopped believing. Never lost faith, because everyone always said, without out God, everything will be a lot worse. So I never lost faith. I just want to die. I want this to be over.


I took out my diary; it was taped under the side of my bed. Everything that has ever happened I’ve written in here. It was the only thing I had. I opened it up to the last page I wrote something on and I wrote the words, ‘They never knew,’ and closed it. I sat that on the desk across my room.


I had a jump rope I played with when I was younger in my closet and as I pulled it out, tears streamed down my face. I was so scared.


The top of it I wrapped around the rod in my closet and the other around my neck. I stood on a box I had and thought for a second; took a few deep breaths. The last words I said were a prayer to God. “Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned. Amen.” And I stepped off the box.