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Dear Online Diary
My Future = Nothing
Ever so slowly, I dragged myself into the dirty classroom, taking a seat in the cold, hard, plastic chair. It was 5th period, French.

I conversed a bit with Edward. We were supposedly taking a test, yet were cheating on the entire sheet. It was a partner's quiz though, so we were allowed to talk.

For some reason or another, I started thinking of Prop.8. Madam Cayla made her way briskly towards her computer. My eyes followed her while my mind was some place else.

The class was being obnoxious, although I can say I did partake in their craziness. Except now, I was in deep thought. Madam Cayla's voice had stirred my moment of silence.

"Fifty-two percent passing!" She raised her voice, but I was the only 1 who had heard. That's how she intended anyway.

"May I leave?"
"Why?"
"I need to cry." It must've been difficult to believe because of the delighted tone in my voice, though I was not happy.
"Two minutes." She replied.

I made my way through the maze of chairs. I didn't feel upset.

In the hallway, I put my hood over my face to hide the shame.
I passed by Caitlyn's classroom twice, debating whether to tell her or not.

Her teacher seemed busy, so I decided not to disrupt the class.
Still making my way through the hallway, I stopped at a restroom.

Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face. They burned like the rage inside of me. I can't marry.
How could they do this? They don't understand!

Carefully, I slipped my fingers into my deep pocket. I pulled out the dulling gold pocketknife, guessing it would get me out of another tough time.

I didn't realize what I was doing. I stared down at my wrist. The red drops were thick, and running down my arm. The blood poured onto the floor like a river. I was crying harder.
My future is ruined

I was disgusted with myself, and the mess of blood on the floor. This time I did not even seem to enjoy the passion I once had for cutting. I glanced at my bloody wrist and covered it with my sleeve, not even bothering to clean it off.

Once home, I tore at my sleeve, exposing what I had done.
Disappointing, isn't it?





 
 
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