Sad High School

This story contains themes or mentions of suicide or self harm.

“Drip drip” my eyes unfocused as my head started to spin “Drip drip” The work I'd been slaving over for hours was being painted a lovely red colour from the red ink dripping from my nose “Drip drip” I was tired my hours of work being covered with that beautiful, shiny red blood, I could care less about that ruined work the fuzziness at the back of my head taking over, my eyes focusing on the continuous drips of bright luscious blood falling in almost slow motion one by one drip by drip. 

All of a sudden my mom barged into my room, the door banging onto the door. 

“SARAH what are you doing young lady, what is going on, your work is ruined, wake up and stop staring at it like a freak.” 

I snapped out of my daze, finally noting the drops of blood now completely soaked into my work. “Oh my god what the hell” I exclaimed, my voice rising in pitch as I stood up, covering my nose with my hand to stop the bleeding. 

“Look at you, pathetic you’ll never get into an Ivy League if you keep this up” my mother tsked as she continued into one of her aunt Mary's daughters who goes to Harvard speech that she'll probably drone on about for another 10 minutes. 

I really don't know why she's telling me this again, after all by this point I probably have memorized it word for word and probably even her intonation when she says certain words. “Mom I know I'll try my best” I start to say before I’m harshly cut off by her again “Well your best isn't going to cut it, Sarah how many times do I have to tell you this is your future your fighting for'' I had heard that phrase as just as I heard the aunt Mary's daughter story. 

It was just too much constantly getting compared to others, getting degraded as less than, it was just too much to handle. 

My mother wanted me to work hard then even harder, my life was like a highway constantly driving at 100 miles an hour but sometimes I just wish I could slow down, bump into some traffic or something. 

“Get yourself cleaned up young lady,” my mom said while leaving my room, I could hear the disappointment in her tone, her disappointment in me. 

By this point my hands had been stained a lovely red colour as the blood slowly soaked into my skin, it was a lovely sight to see, truly beautiful as the red contrasted brilliantly with my pale skin. 

If only I could draw this moment out, I thought, keep it frozen in time forever, never forgetting it. I shook my head hard, snapping out of my daze, sighing as I looked at my now destroyed homework “Well that’s ruined” I muttered under my breath as I walked to my bathroom to wash my face and hands. 

I could see why my mother was so disappointed in me. I thought while fakely smiling to myself, I looked horrendous, the days of sleepless nights building up on my body as my eye bags were so dark by this point, I was truly so pathetic. 

I slowly walked back to my room dreading whatever was waiting for me behind those closed doors, I knew the minute I walked back into my room that the prison door would close on me and the prison guard would go back to watching me, making sure I don’t stray from my task at hand, making sure I study. 

So I hesitated, hesitated to return back to that wooden desk, to the wooden chair with by now my literal butt-print imprinted into it, I hesitated to return to my high-speed life on the highway chasing my mother's dream of an Ivy League. 


Returning to my desk I could feel the sense of dread that washed over me, I could feel my reluctance to pick my pencil up to start writing again and I could feel my body telling me to take a nap, to sleep. 

Oh, what a delight it would be to just freely listen to my body, with her around I don’t think I ever could. 


8-year-old me really loved the arts, she loved crafts of all types and especially loved working with her hands, 8-year-old me knew she wanted to become an artist and dreamt of it all the time. 8-year-old me was free of all worry and struggled like a bird without its wings tied, I was jealous of 8-year-old me. I was jealous of that girl who could smile and laugh without a care in the world, I was jealous of that girl who could make friends wherever she went, I was jealous of that girl who could dream of her future.


9-year-old me caused the divorce between my parents, 9-year-old me told my dad of the other man my mother was seeing, 9-year-old me broke our family up and 9-year-old me had her heart shattered. 9-year-old me was hated by all of my extended family for snitching, 9-year-old me was a disgrace to my family name but really 9-year-old me just wanted her family back… 

9-year-old me caused my father's death and 9-year-old me drove him to suicide. 9 year old me was not even old enough to comprehend what death even meant, 9 year old me still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny and 9-year-old me was just a child in the fourth grade. 


10-year-old me had to carry my mother's future, 10-year-old me was forced to give up her dreams, 10-year-old me was old enough to be an adult and 10-year-old me was forced on the highway to an Ivy League. 10-year-old me was coerced into breaking off all her friendships, 10-year-old me had to study, 10-year-old me was only just ten…

10-year-old me didn’t just have her wings clipped but rather ripped off completely. 


After 10 years old, the ages start to blend together, I’m no longer able to tell them apart, from 10 years old all I did was study, no birthdays, no parties, no friends, no love life, no nothing…no life. From 10 years old I could no longer dream, from 10 years old my life was stuck on repeat, from 10 years old I only had one goal, to get off this highway to get to an Ivy League. 


“SARAH” I jolted awake from hearing that deafening scream, “m-mom” I whispered, I could see the anger boiling under her eyes, I could see the way her eyes scanned me over daring me to continue speaking. 

“I- sorry Mom I was just so tired, I don’t know how I fell asleep, it won't happen again I promise” my voice barely audible. 

“I can’t believe this,” she said her voice audibly getting louder the more she went on “What would your father think of this” My entire body froze up I opened my mouth but nothing came out.


They always used him against me, I hated it, I hated that feeling of being blamed for it all, I hated the feelings they caused me, that feeling of rage and anger coursing through my blood, I hated the way they made me feel, I hated how they knew it affected me but most of all I hated them…

I hate them for the way they blamed me for everything, I hate them for the way they took no responsibility, I hate them for not giving two shits about my father's death. I hate my mom for cheating, for being with another man, I hate how she doesn't even admit it happened…I just really hate how they just don't seem to care, like it was none of their problems. I truly really hated them, but honestly, I think I hated myself more, i hated how I left then got to me, I hated how I was powerless against my mother and I hated how if I just kept my mouth shut and never spoke, how my life would be right now. 


I closed my mouth, glaring at my mother's smirk, she knew her comment hurt. “Am I wrong though?” she asked condescendingly, i couldn't say a thing and before I knew it my legs were running, taking me as far away from her as possible “DON'T YOU DARE RUN AWAY FROM ME” I could hear her faintly screaming in the back, my brain tuning out her grainy scratchy voice. 

I was never an athlete or particularly good at sports so really I didn't know how much longer I could run I just knew I had to get away from her. So even when my lungs were burning and aching begging for a break I kept pushing, just a little further, a little farther, just keep going. 

My slippers eventually caught onto some gravel, my knees and hands smashing straight into the ground with a thud. I could feel the scratches the fall caused, the pain was numbing and my lack of sleep was slowly catching up to me, it was probably around 8 at this point, maybe just a quick 5-minute nap would be fine I thought to myself my eyelids slowly becoming heavier and heavier. 


I felt like my body was floating, like I was on cloud nine like my worries and struggles were being taken away from me. My mind felt relaxed and at peace, I felt like heaven, it felt like I was being wrapped up in one of my dad's warm embraces after a bad day at school, it felt like love, I felt loved. 


The light shining onto my eyelids was willing me to wake up. It was way too bright, but my alarm had not gone off yet, which meant I had time. The persistent sunlight hitting my face felt both nice and warm yet also like an annoyance I had to get rid of. 

I slowly opened my eyes, adjusting to the bright sunlight. I looked around at this unfamiliar scene in front of me, my bed wasn't my bed, this room wasn't my own. My mind was racing at a million miles an hour trying to make sense of where I was and what was going on. 

Suddenly a young woman walked with her eyes widening at the sight of me, she froze stunned for a few seconds before she broke out into a huge smile, “guys she's awake” she called her voice loud yet smooth and light nothing like my mothers.

Seconds after she called out, a couple of people I faintly remember seeing somewhere walked into the room each wearing a smile of their own. “Heyyyyyyy kiddo,” one of them says in an obnoxiously loud yet comforting voice “You must be Sarah,” he says, as confusion visibly spreads through me, “oh were your dad's old pals,” he says clearly noticing my confusion “You’re at the Wayyard police station” my mind races through my memories attempting to find anything substantial, they must have been my dad's old work buddies as he was a cop I contemplate. My mind slowly eases and calms down, I think that's when it hits me, like a train coming at me at 100 miles an hour. 

The dam keeping everything back snaps as my eyes tear up, my vision blurring. I choke back a sob that threatens to escape my throat, a hiccup escaping in its place, once they start falling they just won't stop tear after tear falling down my face, soon balling my eyes out with no stop in sight. 


It takes a while for the tears to stop, even longer to calm myself down, to stop the hiccups. The hand patting my back slowly comes to a halt. “Hey, whenever you're ready to tell us your story, will be ready to listen, but first let’s get you a hot meal, k.” 

June 07, 2024 22:12

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John McPhee
14:02 Jun 13, 2024

This is a dark and depressing story, but you captured its essence artistically.


Lucia Wei
13:21 Jun 14, 2024

Thank you so much :))


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