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I tried killing myself last year.
As a kid, whenever I was stressed, I’d do something I loved. I would hop onto my shitty little drum kit and start to play. I’d play harder than usual, but it was still a healthy outlet for my anger.
I can’t do that anymore, because it ends with my need to be perfect taking over my fucked up brain and absolutely wrecking my drumset. Then I gotta buy new covers for them. And I hate spending money.
Now I cut myself when I’m stressed. I’d rather destroy my body than destroy my expensive kit.
It’s become an addiction, but I had been stepping it up recently. Going deeper, making the cuts longer… until I got drunk and ran a bath. I stripped naked and brought out my razor while I sat in the tub. I watched the water turn red when I swiped it vertically alongside my arm.
I wanted to die so bad. I didn’t care what happened anymore. I knew the world would be a better place without me, and as soon as I was gone, Fletcher would pay. He already felt bad enough about one of his students committing suicide. If I made it two, he’d be ruined. His career would be over. This is how I could finally get my revenge.
I passed out and woke up the next day sticky with my own blood in cold water.
I didn’t die, but I knew I would soon because as soon as I washed off and got dressed, I checked my phone and saw I was an hour late for rehearsal.
When I walked in late, Fletcher was eerily nice. He was nice to everyone that day. He had nothing negative to say at all, actually. I wasn’t stupid, and I obviously knew it couldn’t be real or genuine in any way.
After rehearsal, I was putting my jacket on, getting ready to leave, but he kept me there after everybody left.
“What do you want?” I asked, pissed. I was mostly pissed at myself, honestly. That I failed last night and now I had to face the consequences that came with it.
“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, you little freak.” Fletcher barked at me, and he grabbed my arm, pulling on it with zero effort at all. I flinched. “Do you think you can just show up late to rehearsal because of this?” He asked me cruelly, shaking my forearm for emphasis. He was laughing. He was looking at my leaking wounds and laughing in my face.
I honestly couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I knew Fletcher was the bottom of the barrel and the lowest of the low, but I didn’t think he’d stoop that low.
I got fed up.
When I was stressed I’d play the drums. When I was stressed, I’d cut myself. When I was stressed, I attempted on my life. In this moment, when I was stressed, I stretched out my hand and slapped Fletcher across the face.
He can hit me as many times as he’d like to, but when I do it once, it’s outrageous. This is likewhen a man bites dog. “I wish it’d worked. Never having to see your worthless ass again would be my fucking pleasure. You’re nothing. Please try again and this time cut deeper, pussy.”
“Fuck you.” I spat, shoving him back. “I quit.”