• 5 years ago
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When I was a child, I went on a trip with my parents. They fought a lot and this trip was no exception. I don’t remember much more than them yelling at each other, hating each other while I sat in the corner. Each day was full of hearing hate and being forgotten. It was exhausting and I got tired of it. We were in a motel on Lake Erie and they were going at it rough. The tiny motel room resonated with their shouts. The hatred in their voices consumed everything caught in their range. I broke. I took a knife and held it to my wrists and shouted with my tiny voice that I was going to kill myself. I was 8, but another day living through that sea of hate was too much life to bear. As I held the knife to my wrists, they stopped for a heartbeat, then went back to hating each other. That was the day I realized that loving me meant nothing. My parents are dead now, but I’m still haunted by that day when I was 8 and I was too scared to kill myself. I’m haunted by having nothing to comfort me but the cold wind and indifferent stars that watched over me as I went to sleep in the dirt outside that lakeside motel room. Part of me died that day, and the rest of me longs to join it.

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