I glanced at the clock. 12:58 AM it read. I pulled on my socks and an old pair of converse and crept toward the back door, sliding it open and stepping outside. The night air was humid, but cooler than day. I pushed in my earbuds and walked around the side of the house toward the front. I looked up at the night sky as my feet hit the sidewalk, wiping away my tears as the streetlight shone down on my face. Sure, walking around in this part of town at 1 in the morning probably isn't the best idea, but I didn't give a fuck. I didn't have a fuck for anything anymore.

I walked down the road before turning the corner and breaking into a sprint. No one was out, which was probably a good thing, since seeing a girl dressed in all black running down the road in the middle of the night would probably raise some eyebrows. Finally, out of breath, I reached the house. It was the house I had lived in two years ago. The house where everything happened.

This was the house that I had lived in when my parents told me they were getting a divorce. This was the house that the police came to at least once a month because my brother was on a rampage or my father was so drunk that my sister was scared for her safety. This was the house where I went through hell. I stared up at the two-story, boring, beige building, remembering all the memories that the walls held. I remembered the holes in the walls and the broken doors from angry fists. I remembered the tears that soaked the carpets from hours of sobbing and lying on the ground, unable to move. I remembered the hell that I had lived through and witnessed.

I turned on my heel, walking away, down the road, past friends' and acquaintances' houses. Then, a thought struck me.

I would be completely okay with never seeing this again.

As I had that thought, I felt sick to my stomach. For some reason, that realization made me feel terrible, but at the same time, I felt nothing at all. I had no binds to this place. I wouldn't need it. I wouldn't miss it. And I doubt it would miss me.

With a pit in my stomach I retraced my steps, heading back to the house that was not a home. I slid back inside, walked quietly to my room, took off my shoes and removed my earbuds. I briefly glanced at the screen of my phone as I went to pause my music. No notifications. Everyone was asleep, as they should be. But not me. I couldn't no matter how hard I tried. Sobs would wrack through my body so hard that I couldn't get a moment of rest. Why? I don't know. A million reasons, or maybe just one.

I sat on my bed for a while, pondering what to do. I didn't want to do anything, but at the same time I did. I was sick of living like this.

But I'm too weak. I can't, and I hate it. I resent myself because I can't just fucking get it over with. I've been dragging out my pain for years to keep everyone else happy, because for some god damn stupid reason, I can't bring myself to put them through what I've gone through.

I don't know whether to say thank you, you're welcome, or fuck you. Maybe all of the above? Thank you for keeping me alive in this empty state I'm in, you're welcome for sparing you from the pain of losing someone to suicide, and fuck you for getting in the way.

That's it. I don't know why I'm writing this, but I have too much bottled up and I might explode if I keep another 700+ words in.

I'm fine. Yes, I'm depressed, and yes, I'm suicidal. But there's nothing anyone can do about that so please fuck off with your well wishes and "stay strong" comments. I've heard it all. Encouraging words don't change emptiness, though.