Williamâs Exhale. the story of a psycho depressive adolescent.
Things never work out for me. I used to sit and wonder if any of this actually means anything. If all these attempts at something was actually worth it. This being, this skin, this hair; is any of it even real? Everything ends in death, so what is the point of all of this. It is all temporary. If all this pain, hurt, and suffering is for nothing; then, what is the point of me waiting around.
 I went to the hospital when I was fourteen years old. I wasnât trying to kill myself. I just felt miserable, and codeine was cool. When I left, I was diagnosed with depressive psychosis. The doctors told me that there was no cure for my disorder. I ended up with 3 counseling sessions a week, and a medicine cabinet filled with uppers. The meds they prescribed were real cool but the side effects were hell, the comedowns were much worse than my depressive lows, and I didnât have insurance.
 Due to my mental state, I wasnât allowed to work. My father was absent, and I rarely saw my mother. My eldest brother has been incarcerated for a drug trafficking charge since I was seven years old. Some people wanted my other brother dead, so I ended up alone. The darkness became my only friend. The worst part about depression was the emptiness. The only emotion I possessed was this heavy, drowning sadness.
 Before my freshman year I was involved in Pop Warner football, painted, and visited my grandmother quite often. I tested into an an art academy, I was surrounded by great friends, and I had a very bright future ahead of me. I would attend school, do all my assignments, and hang out with some friends⌠All of that campy teenager shit I was supposed to be doing.
 Now after my diagnosis I would go to school and act a fool, a cry for attention. Hoping, wishing, and praying that someone would save me. I just wanted to feel, I wanted to be able to breathe again. The summer going into my sophomore year brought more temporary things, temporary love. I was in love with a girl named Dalia. She was a junior, played softball, and was very close to her family. She definitely wasnât my type, but someone saw something beautiful in me. For me, that was enough to die for.
 What I soon found out after being with her for eight months: if you canât love yourself, you canât love anyone else. Itâs almost hypocritical in a sense, and my hectic mind state would not let me live with that. So time began to pass, and I pushed her away, I shut her out. A major part of me was jealous. She had a great future ahead of her, a family that loved her, and friends that would take a bullet for her. And what did I have? Nothing.
 In her eyes I ended up being your average high school selfish jerk that only cared about himself. I acted as if what she thought about me didnât bother me, but it did. The looks she gave me, the words I would hear whispered would haunt me, and echo in my mind for eternity. She knew about my disorder. I would sit alone and think, âhow could she be so selfish, and make this about her?â I was battling a crippling internal demon, if anything the bitch shouldâve been by my side. She shouldâve at least understood.
 After a couple weeks I found myself in a very static low. On top of the self hate, sadness, and loneliness; I began to grow a feeling of betrayal. Dalia once told me I was her world, and now she only uses my name to tell people what I couldnât be. I never understood how someone can feel so passionate for someone one day; then the next day theyâll drag their name through the mud.
 By the time second semester started I felt even more alone. I made a new friend and joined a drama class at my school. None of that mattered now though. It was spring break, and my only friend was moving. His name was Jesse. We shared a cigarette in his driveway before he left. I told Jesse about my disorder, and how I didnât know what I would do if he left. He just shrugged his shoulders, and kept smoking.  Jesse was a laid back guy, I admired that. I knew I would never be happy when Jesse left.
 I spent my week in my room. Mostly listening to music, and painting. That was the lowest I ever been. I ran out of medicine, was having withdrawals, and more alone than ever. I wanted to die, but I didnât have the courage to kill myself. So, I figured, Iâll have someone do it. I knew my mother kept a pistol in her dresser. As usual, she wasnât home. I knew her drunken ass wouldnât notice if it was missing. So, I took it, went into the woods, and began target practice.
 I walked into school that following Monday with a Browning nine millimeter handgun. It was in my backpack. Dalia was my partner for free period, but because of our breakup she would blow me off and go to the batting cages with her friends. I had twelve bullets in my backpack, and eight in the clip. I was more than well equipped to handle any situation that arises when I arrived there.
 On my way to the cages I was thinking about what to say, or if I should just start shooting as soon as I see her. I thought if she saw me coming, she would instantly leave. So I would have to use the gun as some sort of leverage. I began to feel anxious. I started to feel the blade grow in my back.  I was nearing Dalia, I could hear her. I took the pistol out of my backpack, turned off the safety, and stuffed it into my waistband.
 I had my weapon drawn when I turned the corner. She was wearing her softball practice uniform, and had her hair in a ponytail. When she noticed I was behind her in the cage she stopped dead⌠She was alone. Her eyes narrowed on the barrel of my pistol that was aiming right at her. She looked up at me teary eyed, and instantly began pleading for her life. I asked her to stop. Hearing her beg was tearing a hole through my heart⌠Thatâs because, I still loved her. Her cries quickly began to grow louder and she began yelling for help, she turned to run. I didnât know what to do, so I shot. Three bullets ripped through her body. Two went through her upper torso; the other one through lower abdomen. Her blood began filling the cage. She was laying flat on her face; she turned herself over, and began crawling away.
 Her breathing was labored, and her arms gave out. Dalia began whispering something that I couldnât hear. Partly because my ears were still ringing from firing the gun. So, I leaned closer,
âWhy?â Â was asked through clinched teeth.
I put my mouth close to her ear, and I replied,
âSo we can meet in the afterlife, things will be different.â
 She gritted her teeth, and began sobbing. It hurt to see her in that much pain but I couldnât shoot her anymore, I didnât have it in me. There were kids on the east side of the cages recording me, and I heard sirens approaching in the distance. I kissed her on her cheek, and told her I loved her. I picked the bloody pistol up off the cold pavement, and turned toward the gathering crowd. A lot of them scattered, and few ducked behind benches. They were not my targets though. So I closed my eyes, placed the warm barrel in my mouth, and pulled the trigger.
 I spent my sixteenth birthday in the hospital. I survived my suicide attempt; I lost my tongue, my teeth, and my nose. I couldnât speak. There were authorities waiting in my room with me, along with a man in a suit. That man was my lawyer. He informed me that Iâm âluckyâ, to be alive; and that Dalia is too⌠The weirdest thing happened to me when I found out Dalia survived. For the first time in a while I laughed. Lifeâs just becoming some sort of twisted joke. Itâs funny how things never work out for me.