Seven months ago, I turned fourteen. As usual, there was a celebration, a cake and fun to be had all around. Unfortunately, there was also a man with a gun who had snapped and shot everything in his sight. He killed my eleven-year-old brother and my godmother. I was hit in the stomach, where the bullet ripped my liver to shreds. It was about a half hour before the paramedics and police could enter the restaurant and subdue the shooter, and by then I was unconscious. At the Hospital, I discovered that I will need a new liver entirely and only my sister, who was a year older than me, was a viable donor in my family. I was torn between my life and my sister's, but I wasn't asked. They knocked me out and were going to disable my sister to keep me alive for about fifteen more miserable years. There were complications during the surgery, and the half of the liver that was intended to support my sister was "unfit" for use. My sister was put on life support, but she died before I could even wake up and thank her, before I could say goodbye. About two months later, I was discharged and sent home with an assortment of pills to keep my sister's liver alive inside of me. My family's lawyer wanted me to go up on the witness stand at the shooter's trial, but he killed himself in prison a week before the set date. Everything was uneventful for about a month until my mother gave up on life and committed suicide. My father then started leaving the house more and more often. It went on for three weeks until one day the police showed up at the door to give their condolences. My father had died of a drug overdose the day before. The only person left in my life was my grandmother, and she was old and frail. I had stopped going to school and spent nearly all of my time at the hospital because of my liver. Two months ago, I attempted suicide by swallowing all of the pills in my medicine cabinet. When I awoke, not only was I alive but a failure, too. My grandmother decided that I needed help, so she sent me to a phsyciatric institution. My therapist was an ugly, angry old man. Not a week after I was admitted did he start to rape me during sessions. Eventually, I just ran away from the god-forsaken place. I went home to my own house. Turns out, my grandmother was dead, too. Child Services put me into foster care and that is where I am today. The people here have a lovely home, but they are all assholes. They don't care for me. They are selfish and sometimes "forget" to pick up my medications, even though Child Services is paying for that in full. The man is cheating on his wife with two young prostitutes and the woman is buying lottery tickets by the dozens. Worst of all, their bastard child, who is seventeen, takes pictures of me in the shower and posts them on the Internet for money, even though he has plenty already. I am always tired and I have stopped going to school. Sometimes an agent from Child Services will stop by and ask why I stopped. The people say that I am sick, which is true, but really they are just too lazy to find out why. Nowadays, I just lie in bed and contemplate the virtues of death. I haven't taken my meds today and I don't think I will ever get around to it. My memories of my family are clouded and so vague that I can't remember my parents names or my siblings birthdays. Before everything went down the drain, I used to be a practicing Catholic. Now, I have quit asking "God" why and just accepted my shitty existence. Even if I found a reason to live, how long would it last? I don't know if or how badly my sister's liver is compromised. I've probably only got a few years left. I can't drink alcohol or run for too long, I can't go an hour without drinking water, I can't go a day without my fucking pills. I am wasting space on this Earth and that's all I'll ever amount to. | |
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