Original Short Stories

The blue water looks deep, oh, so deep, and inviting. My boyfriend, who has beaten me for over twelve years. His voice echoes through my mind, as if he is yelling, "Do it, Kate! Jump, before I shove you myself!" I could never let him go, though. Deep down, I know he is still the boy I met in the 8th grade who gave me plastic roses for Valentine's Day. Or maybe the beast he has become now ripped that 8th grade boy apart.

My mother, who still blames me for my father's death. It was my fault... it was me who was driving when that gang shot him, anyway. Her voice wanders through my head, saying, "Die already, you stupid child!"

My father was the only one who loved me and was kind to me. He would hug me when I came home crying everyday after grade school because I didn't have any friends. He told me he would always be my best friend.

Two years back, I finally got my driver's license and my dad offered to be the passenger on my first official spin around the block. I chuckled and grabbed his hand - and the keys - and we hopped into his mustang, me in the driver's position.

We laughed and sang to the pop tunes on the radio until we drove too far to know how to get back home. We suggested to back track, but there were too many turns and curves to remember how. But, we might as well try.

Obviously we took a wrong turn somewhere, because we ended up in a dim, frightening part of the city. Dad took my free hand and held it between his. "I love you." He told me.

Screams. Frightening, blood-wrenching, hair-on-end screams. Every direction. Gunshots. Yelling.

Boom. A bullet to my dad's heart.

The only thing I heard then was my frightened, blood-wrenching, hair-on-end screams.

The blue water looks deep, oh, so deep, and inviting. The marks on my arms. The marks on my arms my razorblade had etched throughout the years. The tears and the blood stains on my bed sheets that my hatred-filled mother refuses to bring up.

The pain that my aching heart brang me was too overwhelming to ever not send the blade into my skin. The hurt that my dead father and abusive boyfriend and dreadful mother and my lack of friends is much larger than the hurt of the knives and razorblades. My stupid self deserves the extra pain the sharp tools bring me.

The still water that sits patiently before me mimicks my ugly, useless reflection. It could easily drown me and end my sad, sad life that everyone in the world has forgotten about. What is the use of living any longer, anyway? I think 18 years of suffering is far long enough. I take my last, deep breath.

The blue water looks deep, oh, so deep, and inviting. And so, I jump.