For three years, nonstop, it's been going on. The taunting, the pushing and shoving, the nasty IM's and Facebooks spread around about me. I was now just a shell, with no soul left in me. I walked around school with my head hung low and my self esteem even lower.
As I sat on the cold, hard bench at the back of the lunch room memories of tormenting flooded past my eyes. The locking me in the dark bathroom while I slipped and hit my head against the sink, the Facebook called "Alyssa Should Die," the fake love letters from my crush. All that the bullies were, were demons sent up from the devil himself to pick me apart until I became nothing.
I sat alone, sketching away at my notepad, drawing a picture of what I thought heaven looked like. Gold streets, white clouds, a bright, blinding light. At least, that's what my church had always told me heaven was supposed to look like. They always told me that I was going to have a big mansion all to myself, and the streets were laden with gold. But, that's not what my heaven looked like. I imagined complete peace in my heaven. I imagined a large, outstretched green-grass meadow I could lie down in. I didn't want a huge mansion, and what was the point of gold when you were in heaven? I wanted a meadow all to myself, where I could look down at the kids gossiping at the lunch tables at my junior high school and be able to flip them the bird and shout, "Ha-Ha, look at me know, suckers, I'm in my heaven and where are you? Stuck in hell!" Though I knew none of this was possible, I could still dream, couldn't I? I mean, everybody dreams. Some girls dream of boyfriends and first kisses, some girls dream of becoming famous, and some girls dream about their future and how many kids they wanted to have. But, I, I dreamed about heaven. The land and place of happiness. Though I wasn't too fond of God right now, especially since my life was at its utmost downfall at the moment, I still wanted to believe there was a heaven, or at least, a place where my soul could be in peace after I died.
I walked home from school that day with a heart full of hate and the desire to be gone. I wanted to be gone. I couldn't understand why these things had to happen to me. I was a good person, sure, I wasn't a Christian, but that was understandable because God had put me on this planet to become a scratching post for other students. I was just a mere toy boys and girls messed around with when they were bored.
I sludged through my house, making my way to the garage, my desire to be gone growing stronger with each step. I walked past Mom's office where she sat at the computer, oblivious to me.
I flung open the door and stepped inside the cool, dark garage. I knew where it was. Dad always told me where he kept his guns.
I flipped on the dim light, and pulled out a gun from the hard, metal drawer Dad kept them in. I sat in the corner of the garage, debating whether or not I make a hate note. I finally decided that my mother telling the principal about my death was a big enough hate note I could think of. I brought the cool lip of the gun to my temple, more and more memories of the bullying flooding past my eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut but the memories came harder and faster. The bullies laughing pounded against my brain causing a pain I couldn't describe. I screamed a scream of agony, a scream of hatred, a scream of depression before I put pressure onto the trigger. In those five dramatic and nail-biting seconds, pictures of my Mother's smile flew past me, pictures of my childhood flew past me. I was ready to let those go. With one push on the unresponsive trigger, I heard a shot. Darkness flooded my vision. It was all over.