The hot wind blows through my long pastel pink hair. Many unknown faces slowly walk by me. All different kind of shoes slaps against the concrete sidewalk. I bow my head lower.
I wasn't like these people. They walk with confidence or with happy smiles on their faces. Some walk with their friends or their lovers. I walk by myself. Alone. Sometimes place a fake happy smile to show that I'm just like them.
I always had a nagging stuck in the back of my mind. Am I being judged? Are they looking at me? Do I look okay to everyone?
These thoughts never go away. They started when I thirteen. What started it was a small issue. My friends and I were going up to middle school. Which meant new people. Which means leaving the old ones. My friends were slowly leaving me.
They started small. Small, tiny, scratches all across my hands. None of my friends noticed. How could they? They were too busy hanging out with their new friends. No one noticed when the scratches grew into small, tiny, permanent scars. Throughout middle school, I slowly became a loner. My friends just forgot me.
People started to care about me when I got into high school. They start to notice me. Started to notice the small scars. They start to laugh at me. Started to poke fun at me.
Attention whore! She's just doing that to get noticed. She's dating another guy? What a slut! Go add more scars to your hands! Those scars show how many guys she had sex with.
People are right when they say that the world was a cruel place. People will leave you and hurt you. Mumble rumors behind your back. They think that you can't hear it, but you don't say anything when you do. You're scared that they laugh in your face. Then when you turn away to leave, you can hear them making fun of you some more.
I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted to die. My dad had given up on trying to help me. My mom was six feet under the ground. All my friends left me for dead. If I died, would anyone notice? Would my friends show up to my funeral? Would they cry with my father if he is even there? Would they laugh at my unmoving corpse and say how good it was to leave that bitch?
I wanted to test it. I wanted to see if anyone still cared. The scars moved down to my wrists.The first time, no one notice. Maybe my dad saw me lying on my floor and put me to bed. Second time, my dad noticed. He wept as he held my body close to his. He kept repeating, "Don't leave! Don't leave!" Third time, one of my friends came to the hospital. Was she truly caring for me, that I don't know.
Throughout my senior year, I had enough insults and rumors to hand out to every single person on Earth and still had some left over. My name was never called anymore. Even by teachers. I was called either 'Attention Whore' or 'That girl'.
After my graduation, I decided to leave that shithole of a town. I say goodbye to my mother before leaving. I ran off to Los Angeles. Hitching as many rides as I could. I thought I could leave my past and start fresh. But it never works when you still have that nagging feeling permanently stuck in your brain like an arrow that no matter how hard you try, it never comes out.