chapter 1

Alex POV

I’m looking at myself in the mirror for the last time. At that thought, a surge of tears makes me cough and cry at the same time, but it can’t stop me. I need to do this.

If I disappeared, no one would notice, much less care. As far as I can tell, no one has ever loved me. Okay, Sophie. My little sister loves me, but there’s only so much a 10-year-old can do. I spend most of my time thinking about how to protect her.

Our mother took off when our father hit her last month. It sure wasn’t the first time, but it seems like it may have been the last. She left behind a 23-year-old son and a 10-year-old daughter, who she put in my care. I want to know how they thought I was going to take care of Sophie when I lost my last job three months ago, especially since I’m still living at home, but if either of my parents ever used their heads, Sophie and I wouldn’t be in this position.

I’ve been diagnosed with “clinical depression”, whatever the fuck that means. I guess it means it’ll never go away; I’ll never be okay. I knew that already. And I lost my job. I’m a great mechanic. I love old American muscle cars, but usually in my job, I end up putting someone’s Civic back together after they ran that light on the corner of Rookwood and David. I was out of work too much and got fired. It was a combination of depression, physical injuries, and taking care of Sophie when no one else could. I’d love to know how they expected me to fix a carburetor with an arm in a cast.

My arm still hurts. It’s healed from when my father broke it six months ago, and the doctors say it’s “psychosomatic”. It’s the first time he’s broken a bone in years. The beatings started when I was a kid, and I thought time would stop it, but it didn’t. But no matter what happens, I never leave. I never consider moving out. I CAN’T leave Sophie alone with him. I never call the cops or say a word because if I don’t let him wail on me, he’ll just do it to my little sister.

I was beaten up in high school, my head dunked in toilets because everyone knew. When my mother would sport a new black eye, that meant it was open-season on me. By the jocks, who said I was a girl that I couldn’t protect her, and by everyone else for simply allowing my father to hurt me. But I didn’t see a way to stop it.

Recently, he found a friend and I deep in conversation in my room, tears in my eyes. He called me a faggot, threw me across the room, and punched me until I lost consciousness. I woke up with a bloody nose and a broken right arm. I’m not gay, but I wish I was because it would piss my father off even more. My friend and I were just talking. Sometimes you need to talk to someone. But my dad should be relieved because after he beat the shit out of me, my “friend” decided it was best if we didn’t talk anymore.

That’s when the cutting started. My mother left and my last friend left within a few months of each other. I expected it to hurt, but the adrenaline makes the pain of cutting disappear. I know I have power, I know I can control what happens to me when I cut. I feel completely helpless, but this makes me feel like I have control. When my dad found out, he just called me pathetic again. And he was sure to tell me that no matter what mom said in her letter, a court of law would never let a faggot psycho fuck nut like me take care of a child, much less an unemployed psycho fuck nut.

I’ve been eating at the same rate I’ve been cutting, since it’s the only thing that helps me stop, so according to my father and his brothers, my uncles, I’m now a faggot psycho fuck nut fat ass. I would think that would be too many adjectives for one person, even me. But I am now gross and ugly, and I can’t fit into anything. My jeans ride below my belly and all my shirts ride up, revealing jiggly rolls everyone laughs at.

Today, I wrote Sophie a nice long letter. “No matter what you do, baby, don’t blame yourself. You’re what kept me alive for so long, wanting to raise you like you should be raised, but I just don’t have the strength. I can’t hold down a job and I can’t try to get custody of you if I can’t keep one. You’ll be okay with him if you obey him and act the way he thinks you should act. Never argue with him. You’ll grow up. When you’re 18, run, run sweet pea, don’t ever look back or let that man contact you. I love you, Sophie. Stay strong, and know you’re ultimately better off without me. Your brother, Alex.”

Part of me doesn’t feel bad at all about leaving a mess. My father deserves to clean it up. I don’t have a gun, and figure I’ll stick with what I’m good at—cutting. I slice into my wrists unto the blood is good and gushing, and I can’t stop myself from crying. It hurts and I’m scared. Do suicides really go to hell? I close my eyes, hoping to bleed out in my sleep, but hear my door knob turn.

“Alex?” It’s Sophie’s little voice. No! No, she wasn’t supposed to find me! But I’m not strong enough to respond or sit up. “Alex!”, she cries out and screams.