It was Father’s day night, almost two years ago. The night was late, and I was quite young, now that I think about it. Just an eighth grader, on a night of early summer. Considering that I live in an apartment, the rooms are fairly close. My step-brother, since he was still living with us at the time, was not there. As usual. My parents decided that they would have sex, and for some odd reason the fact that they had no shame in being so loud, made my blood boil. It had to do with something along the lines of, if they knew I was right next door, why would they put me through that. The thought of hearing it, even now, is completely disgusting. Plus, my dad is four hundred fucking pounds. They didn’t even try to hide it, I mean, I would never do such a thing to someone. Having sex isn’t joyful for others to hear, it’s so unpleasant and foul. So without thinking, I wrote a note and pasted it to the door. I do not remember what the note quite said, although I know a part of it said, “Can you please not have sex when I’m home?” I retreated back to my room, and propped my old desk’s chair against the door, old style, to protect myself. I guess. About roughly, ten minutes later, my parents slink out of their room in their post-sex euphoric state, my dad seemed to miss the note, but my step-mom saw it, and showed my dad. And it seems as if within seconds, he converted from a joyful carefree state, to a complete demon. My dad went completely ballistic, I could hear the sofa chair fall over as he pushed himself off of it, and stormed towards my room. Forcing the door open and almost smashing the weak desk chair that was against my door. I don’t quite remember much after this, I know he was screaming profanity after every sentence and people approximately four apartments down would have been able to hear the situation perfectly. He got so angry with the entire situation, that he kicked my guinea pigs cage, and made it fly over. I honestly thought he had killed my guinea pig through giving it a heart attack. By now, I was in complete tears, sobbing to him. And then my dad began screaming more hurtful things to me. He called me words such as fat ass, fucker, whore, gross, unloved. The list goes completely on. I don’t know why but I reacted to those words so horribly. I have never heard my own father call me words that he even knows I was bullied with all throughout middle school. He knew that I went through anorexia, bulimia and depression through the entire sixth and seventh grade. And to have my own father, someone I should look up to, shove those menacing words into my face, emotionally scarred me. He also told me that I was moving out to live with my real mom. As he described, “A worthless crack-smoking piece of shit.” This also hurt me deep down, considering the fact that I love my mother so much. No matter how horrible her past and present may be, I looked up to her, and my heart was so open to her. I used to idolize her. Every time we fight, he always pushed her into my face also. And that’s what really strikes my heart. My dad then left me in the room, because he does that as we fight, he leaves and then comes back even more angry. I was sitting there, choking on my air, incapable of breathing. The crying had closed up my throat, and I grabbed what was closest to me, which were a pair of scissors. I began gouging it into my skin, letting the blood flow from the wound I inflicted upon myself. My dad came back at this time, opened the door, took one look at me and then said, “Do you need a sharper blade? I can go get you one. I’ll help you, I think killing yourself is a wonderful idea.” I have never forgotten those words. He retreated to the kitchen, and actually brought me a knife, and dropped it in front of me. All I could do was sit there, staring at the piece of metal through my swollen eyes, contemplating whether to touch it or not. My dad was staring at me. I was so disgusted with myself, and with my father, that all I remember from that moment in particular is falling over, and blacking out. I guess the incapability to further breathe had gotten to me, and all the sobbing finally made my body give in. I passed out, probably from all the stress and anxiety my body was trying to induce. I remember opening my eyes, and him pushing me with his own feet, screaming at me that I was mental. And that he’s calling the ambulance to pick me up and take me to an institution. He kept pushing me with his feet, almost like a kick, I wasn’t sure, since my body felt so numb. I remained in the laying position on the floor, closing my eyes because everything hurt so much. At that point, I remember, I wished for a savoir I wished that he had actually called the ambulance, because moments later when he told me he didn’t call, I was truly disappointed with the lie. I wanted to die so badly.

And I still want to die.