Sometimes (or most of the time), I really hate my family.
I hate them for watching my youngest brother bully me, be rude to me, he physically violent. Yet they so not discipline me. All they do is say “stop it, enough.”
But what is enough?
Is it only enough when he decides he’s done throwing my phone? Or throwing my phone upwards so hard it hits my spectacles it went flying, and cutting my face as well?
Is it only enough when he destroys my things?
I help my parents with everything, and yet when my brothers call me bitch, they keep quiet. When they are rude, they keep quiet.
Maybe when I die, they’ll still be quiet.
Sometimes, I wonder if they’ll be happier if I’m out of their lives. Out of everyone’s lives.
I don’t think anybody will miss me.
My friends might, for a while, but then life will go on, and they’ll soon forget about me. I wont blame my friends, it’s normal.
But don’t worry. I’m too much of a scardy cat to kill myself. Maybe I should write a letter should a car accidentally hit me and I die; to alleviate their guilt. It’s not their fault. Its fate, i’m meant to die that way. I’ve been telling my friends that I’ll die at 55. I will die early. I feel it in my bones.
