A suicide letter to you

I was that fat, ugly girl you made fun of in school. You know, the one with pimples on her face the size of mountains. The one with the unwashed, greasy hair. The one who couldn’t control her weight. The one who wore the same clothes every day because their parents couldn’t afford brand name clothes. The stinky one. The girl who kept her head down. The girl who tried to minimize her existence every chance possible.

Yeah, that was me. You made fun of me. You made me cry myself to sleep every night. You made my years as a teenager absolute hell. You drove me to attempted suicide. Yes you. You and your fucking cronies, Jake. Fuck you Jake Walsh.

I tried committing suicide half way through the eleventh grade. I was tired of all the shit you put me through. I dreaded coming to school every day. So, I tried taking my own life. I took a bottle of pills. Cut my wrists in a bathtub. Cut my wrists the wrong way. No one teaches you in school the right way to kill yourself. That is just not the thing public institutions teach troubled kids.  Sadly, my mother found me passed out in the bathtub; blood spilling from my arms – short of breath.

I never went back to school after that. Spent most of my time at a mental institution. Ended up getting my GED when I was twenty-two. Got a lot of work done on my face. Changed my ugly appearance with plastic surgery. Got some big fake breasts, dyed my hair and tanned all the time. My appearance was totally changed. I looked and felt different.

Despite my change in appearance I was still the same old insecure, ugly girl on the inside. I never stopped thinking about the hell you put me through. I wanted revenge. Sweet revenge from all the shit I had to deal with.

I tracked you down on social media. You gained weight. Your hair was falling out. You went through a bad divorce and spent most of your nights at a bar. Drinking those poor sorrows away.

I watched you from afar for a few nights. Waiting for the perfect moment to introduce myself. To seduce you in bed. To fuck your brains out.

That was my plan. Have sex with you. Take you into my lair.

But there was a deeper incentive to my plan. I didn’t care to have sex with you. I wanted to give you what I had.

Earlier that year I contracted HIV. I went to the skid rows of our city and hung out with some drug addicts. Bad drug addicts. The needle users.

I asked those druggies to stick their dirty needles in my arm. They looked at me like I was crazy. Like I was some sort of sick masochist. But I was just crazy on revenge.

Stab and jab the needles went. In and out of my arms. Hundreds of times. It hurt and stung. Made me cry. But it wasn’t cries of sadness. Rather cries of happiness of my plan unfolding into my lap.

A week later I went to the clinic and found out I had contracted HIV and a host of other nasty diseases.

Seducing you was easy. You didn’t recognize me as the girl you use to make fun of. You just stared at my big fake breasts. Smacked my ass in the short dress I was wearing. Called me babe and sweetie. Said I was the most beautiful thing you ever saw. It was like taking candy from a baby.

Eventually we ended up having sex. You tried to put a condom on, but I told you I wanted to feel everything. Every bit of that small, deformed dick. You haplessly agreed to fuck me bare.

The sex was terrible. Your fat, hairy belly hung over me while your small, penis went in and out of my disease filled void. I faked it. Made you feel like you were doing a great job. Made you feel like a king.

The sex ended as quick as it started. No surprise with a bloated, unfit alcoholic.

Before we had sex, I went into the bathroom and took small razors to the inside of my vagina. Made small cuts on the inside of my void. I wanted to make sure you caught what I had.

Then you passed out. Passed out in my arms. You were drunk. I was sober.

When you wake up I’ll be dead. This time my suicide attempt will be successful. I have the right bottle of pills. I cut my arms the right way. Blood will drain from my arms. I will be covered in a warm blanket of blood and revenge. The pills will keep me warm and make me smile. Hell yes.

This is a suicide letter to you. To you Jake Walsh. The boy who made my life living hell. The boy who destroyed everything I had.

Take care,

Carrie, the fat, ugly girl in first period.


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