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Hello, My Name Is Hallie, And I Have A Problem.
I felt the cool, rough edge of that piece of glass slide across my wrist. I felt the warm, gooey blood trickle down my hand. I felt it all, and I regretted nothing.
I guess I should start at the beginning. My name is Hallie Jones, I’m 17, and honestly, I stopped caring about me, society, everything except music and my dog about 6 years ago.
What blessed miracle could finally bring me to slitting my wrists? My dog, the only thing in this world I have ever loved died today. He was only 8 years old, and he just died.
I remember holding him as a newborn puppy, I remember holding him as we drove in the car the first time, I remember taking him with me the first day I got my driver’s license, I remember all the times we played together, and all the times he laid his little black nose on my legs whenever I cried myself to sleep.
I remember today: a hot, sticky August morning. Oscar (my dog) and I were outside playing, and my neighbor’s cat got into his peripheral vision. The cat crossed the road, and so did Oscar.
She said she never saw him, and that if I really cared about him, I’d have had him on a leash. I told her to off.
I will never forget him, as long as I may live (which probably won’t be long, since I’m in the middle of nowhere with slit wrists).
I want to remember what it feels like to be completely happy. I had my mommy, and my daddy and a little black lab named Oscar. I remember the wind billowing around my head, moving my semi-curly chocolate brown hair around, and I remember seeing my daddy get in the car on the way to work (and the chills are crawling up my spine now).
He suffered massive head trauma the doctors told us, and he probably wouldn’t make it through the night. He was hit head on by a drunk (semi truck) driver, the fact he was still alive long enough for mommy to say goodbye, was nothing short of a miracle.
I wasn’t so lucky. He died halfway through what I was saying. I guess that’s why people see me as “heinous” I have come to be known at my school as.
Right after daddy died, I started cutting myself. I never wanted to go too deep or too close to my wrists, because I had my little black lab puppy I didn’t want to let down.
But now that he’s gone, now that Oscar’s gone, now that Mom is an alcoholic leaving me to pay the bills with my waitressing tips and small paychecks, I don’t care. I loved Oscar with all my heart, and since he’s gone, I can finally be in peace now.
They always said “only the good died young.” Well, I guess I’m changing that statement.
They said that dying wasn’t painful, but I disagree. My wrists burned, my eyes were filled to the brim with tears, and already overflowing, the small puddle of (my) blood on the ground was already drying.
Had I cut deep enough? Did I stop bleeding? I just want to be OUT of this painful misery you people call a life. I want out.
I turned to see a state trooper. Hiding my slit wrists, I slowly walked away across the dusty red dirt road in this hole of a town. I got to about 10 feet away from the trooper when I went down. I lost consciousness.
So here I am, Hallie Jones, dead from suicide. I can see the Obituaries now.
Only, I can’t be dead, because I hear voices, and if I flick my (eye) lids, I can see my mom.
“Oh, Hallie!” She exclaimed.
I didn’t want to have anything to do with her, yet here I was, hugging her, tears rolling down my face.
“Hallie, baby, it’ll get better! I promise I will stop drinking, and we’ll become a family again,” she said to me, with heavy emotions that can’t be described in any words but L.O.V.E.
So, this is what I get to look forward to in the next three months while I’m at rehab. A normal family? Psh, no. A second chance at life with a new family.