Kissing Razors
If I Were You, I'd Put That Away
*Lydia*
I locked my door, trying to ignore the insults that the much older children were throwing at me, calling me vile names, telling me to slice into my wrists deep enough to bleed out the life in my emotionally dead green eyes. I had never taken it into serious consideration, ending my life, ending my pain, but now, now all I wanted was to sleep, to sleep and to never wake up, never wake up, never face their taunts, never face the craving to feel the cold metal blade sinking into my pale skin, never face the urge to watch the blood well up but never spill over; I'd never have to face the harsh reality that my mother hated me ever again. This could be my eternal escape from this. But then something was slipped under the door, a small, square envelope with my name written in familiar handwriting on the back. I moved towards the paper curiously, hearing a pair of foot steps leaving away from my room as if they didn't want to be heard. I carefully examined the envelope and then opened it, and what I saw made me stop, my breathing barely above a whisper, as a small slip of paper fell out, along with a lanyard and another, larger bit of paper. I picked up the note and read it silently, tears welling in my eyes.
Lydia,
No one deserves the names you get called, especially not someone who did nothing wrong. I know that you want to go to that Warped Tour date, and so I got you these. Happy early birthday, Dia.
Margaret.
I smiled at the gesture of the orphanage owner. She may not like me, but she hates seeing people in pain. Wait, Warped Tour. Pierce The Veil is on this year's tour. She basically gave me a pass to see the four men who's music has kept me here. I checked the date on the ticket and saw that it was tomorrow. August 27th. The day I'm 14, and the day I'm running away. I pulled out an outfit for tomorrow, which consisted of a PTV shirt, black ripped skinny jeans, and my only pair of combat boots. I packed everything else into my Misfits backpack and my purse. I sat on my bed with my dad's old guitars, his black electric and his whiskey colored acoustic. I missed my Papa so badly. I picked up his acoustic and played A Trophy Father's Trophy Son.
"Father, father, where have you been? It's been hell not having you here. I've been missing you so bad, and you don't seem to care. When I go to sleep at night, you're not there, when I go to sleep at night, do you care?" I sang, teardrops hitting the guitar. I missed him, so, so bad. He had died when I was younger, and my mother's abuse just got worse until they took me away. And here I am.
"... Is this what you call a family? Is this what you call a family?" I finished, now full on crying.
"I miss you Daddy. I miss you so much." I whispered, placing both guitars in their cases and putting them with my things by the door. I set my phone's alarm for 7 AM and laid on my bed, dreaming of my father.
I locked my door, trying to ignore the insults that the much older children were throwing at me, calling me vile names, telling me to slice into my wrists deep enough to bleed out the life in my emotionally dead green eyes. I had never taken it into serious consideration, ending my life, ending my pain, but now, now all I wanted was to sleep, to sleep and to never wake up, never wake up, never face their taunts, never face the craving to feel the cold metal blade sinking into my pale skin, never face the urge to watch the blood well up but never spill over; I'd never have to face the harsh reality that my mother hated me ever again. This could be my eternal escape from this. But then something was slipped under the door, a small, square envelope with my name written in familiar handwriting on the back. I moved towards the paper curiously, hearing a pair of foot steps leaving away from my room as if they didn't want to be heard. I carefully examined the envelope and then opened it, and what I saw made me stop, my breathing barely above a whisper, as a small slip of paper fell out, along with a lanyard and another, larger bit of paper. I picked up the note and read it silently, tears welling in my eyes.
Lydia,
No one deserves the names you get called, especially not someone who did nothing wrong. I know that you want to go to that Warped Tour date, and so I got you these. Happy early birthday, Dia.
Margaret.
I smiled at the gesture of the orphanage owner. She may not like me, but she hates seeing people in pain. Wait, Warped Tour. Pierce The Veil is on this year's tour. She basically gave me a pass to see the four men who's music has kept me here. I checked the date on the ticket and saw that it was tomorrow. August 27th. The day I'm 14, and the day I'm running away. I pulled out an outfit for tomorrow, which consisted of a PTV shirt, black ripped skinny jeans, and my only pair of combat boots. I packed everything else into my Misfits backpack and my purse. I sat on my bed with my dad's old guitars, his black electric and his whiskey colored acoustic. I missed my Papa so badly. I picked up his acoustic and played A Trophy Father's Trophy Son.
"Father, father, where have you been? It's been hell not having you here. I've been missing you so bad, and you don't seem to care. When I go to sleep at night, you're not there, when I go to sleep at night, do you care?" I sang, teardrops hitting the guitar. I missed him, so, so bad. He had died when I was younger, and my mother's abuse just got worse until they took me away. And here I am.
"... Is this what you call a family? Is this what you call a family?" I finished, now full on crying.
"I miss you Daddy. I miss you so much." I whispered, placing both guitars in their cases and putting them with my things by the door. I set my phone's alarm for 7 AM and laid on my bed, dreaming of my father.
@wizardsarecool
As soon as I get my iPod back, I will. The next chapter is in my notes
3/4/14