A Savior Will Be There <3

Kyra has Schizophrenia, Bulimia, and depression. Her dad had gone to jail for abusing her mother when she was little. Her brother ran away, and she doesn't even know if he's alive. When the band that kept her from suicide shows up at the hospital after she nearly died, her whole life turns around. The voices in her head keep warning her about something coming ahead, and she doesn't know what. All she knows is that it's something big, and it won't be good.


1. Chapter 1

      I sat in the back of the class, not able to concentrate.
      Why don’t you just kill yourself, you little freak. You can’t even focus in school. What’s the point in living if you’re gonna be an outcast?
      I clutched my head and closed my eyes. The voices wouldn't stop coming.
      “Stop!” I cried. “Stop it, please!” I opened my eyes and everybody was staring. I was sweating and my breathing was heavy. “M- May I be excused?” I asked. The teacher sighed and nodded, then continued to teach. Quickly, I got up and headed to my locker, and then to the bathroom.  The whole way the voices were bothering me. I looked into the mirror.
      Haha. Look at yourself! Pathetic! You have PURPLE hair! Like I said before, go kill yourself! Nobody will care! C’mon. Do it! Do it! Listen to me. Who’s gonna care? The friends you don’t have?
      I took the pills before it could get any worse. The voices faded within a few minutes. Not being able to help it, a tear slipped from my cheek. I sat down, hugging my knees to my chest. I wanted to be alone. Nobody understood. They didn't understand the Schizophrenia. They didn't understand the Bulimia. They didn't understand the depression. They didn't understand the ADHD. They didn't understand anything. I stayed there, thinking about what caused all of this 8 years ago. I was only 9 at the time, and my brother was 13.

*8 years ago*

      “Daddy, please! Stop it!” I screamed, crying my eyes out. “Mom!” My older brother held me back, but he was just trying to keep me from getting harmed. I could feel the teardrops roll from his cheek onto my head. “Max, go call the police! Now!” I yelled.
       We ran to the phone and Max dialed. “Hello! 911? Yes, we live on 8264 Delman road. My dad, he- he’s abusing m- my mother . . . . yes! Please! Hurry!” he sobbed.
      He ushered me into the bathroom and sat down with me on his lap, resting his head on mine. “It’s going to be okay. They’re on their way. Mom will be okay. It’s okay.” He choked. We sat for some time, and couldn't hear when they came, but we knew they did. I fell asleep in his lap, and woke up in the same place, except Max was gone.
      “Max!” I called. “Max!” I ran into the hallway. He wasn't there. The kitchen, the garage, the living room. He still wasn't there. I finally checked his room. He was on his bed, huddled in a ball. “Max?” I said, worriedly. He turned his head. There was a red hand print on his cheek, and his eyes were filled with hate. I knit my eyebrows. “Ar- Are you okay?” I asked. He just looked away. “What happened to mom?” I kept asking.
      “Get out.” He ordered in a crackly voice, as if he had been crying.
      “But what about-“ I started.
      “Get out!” he shouted, throwing a thick book at me. “She’s dead! She’s dead all right!? Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to know!?” he yelled.
      I was drawn back by this. I didn't know what to say. Shaking my head, I turned around and ran to my room and started to cry. Why did he do that to me? That wasn't like him. Was he depressed? Still, he shouldn't have done that. Was mom really dead? Max wouldn't lie to me about something like that. He wouldn't have yelled at me like that either, but he did. I kept crying.
      I learned we were moving to our aunt’s house. My dad was sentenced to 20 years in prison.
      The next day was moving day. Everything was packed, and I was ready to go. The doorbell rung, and it was my aunt. Taking one last look at my now empty room, I ran to go answer the door. We shared hugs and kisses, and then were on our way. Throughout the whole ride, Max would not talk. No matter how much we kept pleading with him, he wouldn't talk. Eventually I gave up.
      When I was little, I never understood the scars on his wrists. I would ask him, but he replied that they were battle scars. I never believed him, but I quit asking. I knew he was bullied at school. They would call him gay, or emo. Of course I was too little to know what that meant.
      Things got a little better between us, but we never had the same connection we used to before that night. One night when I was twelve, almost thirteen, I thought things were at its peak, I went up to talk to him. To talk about that night. To apologize.
      Right away I knew things were wrong. Many things were missing from is room.
      “Hey Aunt Trish, has Max left recently?” I called down to her.
      “No, why?” she asked.
      I got a little worried. I searched the house, but came to nothing. A little more worried now, I ran back up to his room. Looking a little closer, I found something that had not been there before. There was a note written in his messy handwriting.

I don’t know how else to tell you guys. I couldn’t tell you to your face, so I wrote this note instead. So here goes nothing.
My life has been a struggle. Failing grades in school, tormented by the kids in school every single day, getting into trouble. I can’t take it. They make me feel terrible. They make me feel useless.
I know suicide isn’t the answer. I have attempted once or twice, but I realized it won’t help anywhere. I have been cutting, though.
What have I done, though? I ran away. I feel like I’ve packed enough stuff to help me for awhile. I’m going to try and start a new life in a new city, not too far from here. Maybe it will get better. Maybe it won’t. But I can’t just sit there and do nothing, so I’ve got to at least try.
What forced me to do this?
Josh Burrow- nearly drowned me in swim and constantly beats me up in the locker room and behind the school
Peter Blue- Teases me. Calls me gay and emo.
Ryan Longs- Threatens me and takes my stuff if I don’t give it up to him.

      He listed person by person, everything that they did. The list went on for awhile.

And many of their friends play along.
I've also lost dad and mom. Aunt Trish, please don't think I hate you. I love you. I'm glad you took us in. If it wasn't for you, we'd be on the street. But I would love mom back. I miss her so much. The pain, it's just, hard to explain.
There is so much more of that I really don’t want to explain.
Please don’t be mad at me. I love you guys. Forgive me for not talking. As you can see, I’ve been going through a lot. Kyra, I know I got mad at you that one night and threw a book at you. The thought hasn’t left my head since. Just remember, I love you guys. I know you don’t deserve this. I understand if you don’t forgive me.

      I called for my aunt again, but very loudly. She ran up, and noticed I was crying. I handed her the letter, and she started crying too. We called the police, and they said they would look.
      We were very taken back by that. My aunt had looked like she recovered, but her eyes didn't tell the same story. But I was more of an open book. Not that I talked much, because I didn't,  but you could read my emotions very much more easily. I never fully recovered. At age 13, I was diagnosed with depression. At 14, I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. Voices in my head kept telling me I was useless. I was also diagnosed with Bulimia, I didn't dare tell anybody.

*Present Day*

      The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and I got up, fixed my tear- stained face, and headed out to my locker.
      “Gonna be a loser like your brother?” a kid teased from behind me. They threw a crumpled up piece of paper at my head. I picked it up, and read it. Go kill yourself faggot. I sighed and made my way home. Nobody else had to walk. They had parents to pick them up, they got to ride the bus.
      I came home to a note on the fridge. Every time I find a note my stomach does a massive flip. It always brings back the memory. I can remember word for word what the note said.
      Gonna be a little late. Love you sweetie. –Aunt Trish
      I sighed and ran up to the bathroom. I grabbed the razor that I always hid behind a few things. I took the bracelet off my wrist that covered all of the scars. Taking a deep breath, I slid it across my wrist, but not as hard as the last few ones. The few cuts I had on my wrists were faded, only interrupted by these new ones. I put the razor away.
      Have you looked at yourself lately, fatty? Nearly eighteen, and you weigh 100 pounds. Wow. Why don’t you just go starve yourself.
      I ran over the toilet, and puked. I puked out my breakfast, lunch, everything I had today. I stepped on the scale, one hundred and two pounds. Fatty.
       I ignored the voices. I wasn't allowed to have another dosage for another half an hour, so I went downstairs and put in my headphones (Black Veil Brides played) and tried to concentrate on homework. After twenty minutes of trying, I gave up. When was I going to use this in real life, if I’m even strong enough to keep myself from suicide? The clock read five o’ eight. My shift at Hot Topic started in about twenty minutes, so I grabbed my keys and headed for my car. I changed my mind and decided to walk, I need the exercise.
      On the way out, my aunt was coming in.
      “Hi sweetie,” she kissed my cheek. Her eyes widened. “What is that on your wrist?!” she screamed at me. Shoot. I forgot to slip my bracelet back. “Are you cutting?! Kyra, you know you can talk to me about anything! Cutting is no way to solve something!”
      I was speechless. There was nothing to say, nothing to deny. Quickly, I turned my head and ran. People stared, but I just kept running. I could hear my aunt calling my name, but I ignored her. This wasn't supposed to happen. Tears were in the corner of my eyes and I held them back.
      By the time I arrived at work, I was controlled and back to normal. I took my regular post as the cashier  Customer by customer, the rest of the day went by. The voices began to increase, but I didn't have my pills, so I just tried to ignore them. Occasionally I would yell “stop” and get a few odd looks.
      A girl came up to the register about a little older than me. She was a little taller, had blonde hair with green and pink streaks, but the underside of her hair was dyed black. She had big hazel eyes lined with eyeliner and mascara. “Excuse me,” she exclaimed innocently.
      “Sorry,” I apologized, snapping out of my thoughts.
      She gasped. “Honey, don’t tell me you’re cutting. Listen, I've been through it, and whatever it is, it’ll get better,” she explained “Trust me.”
      “I doubt it,” I said to myself, rolling my eyes and checking out her items.
      “Don’t say that. There’s always a solution,” she told me.
      “Oh yeah? Do you have schizophrenia? Do you have Bulimia? Were you diagnosed with depression and ADHD? Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t feel like talking. Now here’s your stuff. Your total is forty- five dollars and eighty two cents.” I sighed. It was mean, but nobody could tell me it was going to get better. They didn't know. It was better to have the truth than to get my hopes up.
      “Here’s my number. Call me if you want someone to talk to,” she looked at me, then handed me the paper and money and then left. I watched her as she walked away.
      She hates you, just like everybody else. Just like your aunt. Just like your brother. Just like your parents. You’re never going to have friends. If you have no friends, obviously nobody loves you. If nobody loves you, then what’s the point in living? Just go kill yourself. It will end it all.
      I clutched my head again and shook it rapidly. “Stop!” I screamed.
      My boss approached me. “Do you need to go home?” she asked.
      I nodded, and ran out as fast as I could. She watched me with a worried look. The voices would not stop, and they got worse by the second. I fell over still clutching my head. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Please! Go away!” I cried.
      A few people rushed up to me. I couldn't tell who. My vision was getting blurry, and the voices overpowered me. “Stop it! Go away!” They wouldn't listen. I needed my pills, but they weren't anywhere close. There were multiple voices. I couldn't take it anymore. My whole body hurt. When the pain reached its peak, I blacked out.

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