> I posted a link to this in Chat a few times and it seemed to get good responses, so I've decided to try my luck here. Enjoy...
>
>
> [Author's note: This story is not a cry for help, nor is it based on my life or someone else's. It is purely fiction, so far as I know. Keep that in mind while reading.]
>
> Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
> "Heh."
> ::thunk:: ::rip::
> After throwing out the half-sheet of notebook paper and ripping out another one, Corey chewed on the end of her pencil. A very intelligent young woman, she had many talents, but she was constantly being pushed aside by those better than her.
>
> (This test indicates that Miss Payne has an IQ of 142. Remarkably high, but not quite genius level.)
> (Mmm. Good, very good, but your tone's a bit weak... Not quite strong enough to get first chair.)
> (Your essay was well-written, but not quite long enough, I'm afraid.)
>
> Not quite. Not quite. She was SICK of "not quite"!
> ::skritch::
> Sticks and stones may just break bones, but words can break a spirit.
> "Ehh, not quite true." (She laughed inwardly at yet another "not quite".) "Besides, I swear I've seen it somewhere before..."
> ::thunk:: ::rip::
> Her drive to be different--especially from those whom she considered to be no more than self-absorbed bubble-brained idiots--had cost her socially. She had no friends; indeed, most of her classmates took joy in mocking her. "Arrogant [insert profanity here]," the taunts would go. "Clumsy! You're too [insert more profanity here] smart!" Her skin had gradually thickened, but she still couldn't keep it out completely...
> She sighed.
>
> ::skritch::
> Sticks and stones may just break bones, and words just break a spirit, but fists do a pretty damn good job of both.
> "Not too poetic, but it fits." She scratched out the word "damn", put down her pen, and eyed the knife she'd filched from the kitchen. She'd stolen it right in front of her mother's face, but her dear mother hadn't cared. She never cared. Nobody cared... Even when the bullying she'd grown so accustomed to had taken a particularly nasty turn...
>
> (There she is!)
> (Let's get her!)
> (This'll teach ya not to give answers!)
> ::thwack::
> ::wham::
> ::slap::
> The bruises had hurt, but the responses--or lack thereof--had hurt more. The teacher who'd found her had shoved a pass in her hand and pushed her in the direction of the nurse's office. The nurse had glanced over her, given her a cup of some warm but foul-tasting concoction suspiciously like tea, and bustled her out. When she'd come home, her mother had simply glanced up from her TV-induced stupor at the sudden noise, then returned to it. Her older sister--a senior--was too busy talking on the phone to do even that.
> This had continued for several weeks. Whenever Corey had tried to stay home, her sister had found her, forced her into the car, and driven her to school, explaining that "if I have to go, you have to go. Got it?" Attempts to explain what was happening to her had met with stony silence, and Corey soon gave up.
>
> Corey cringed at the recollection and read over the note again. As an afterthought, she added, "Farewell. Or don't. Whichever you choose. Corey Payne" to the end.
> "There. The deed shall soon be done..." She lifted the knife and considered it. "Wrist-slitting would be too slow... I have to do it and get it done before I lose my nerve." She poised the knife over her heart and waited...
> And waited...
> And waited.
> "Why can't I do it? I have no place, nobody who cares, no one I care about... I can't stop now that I've gone this far..." She pushed the tip to her chest and breathed in... out... in...
> "Now."
> With that single whispered word, she slid the knife into its new sheath and fell back in her chair.
>
> When the older sister entered the next morning, she looked seemingly impassively at Corey's body laying untouched on the chair. She glanced at the pieces of paper laying side by side on the desk, then, feeling a curious wetness on her cheek, hurried to the bathroom. Upon looking in the mirror, she was dismayed to find a single tear ruining her make-up mask. She rushed to reapply it.
>
> The first piece of paper has already been covered in detail. The second was a much-worn half-sheet of notebook paper with a message scrawled on it in pen and pencil with much erasing and whiting out. It read:
> "Real lives and storybook lives, movie lives, etc. both contain great joy, great trouble, and great sorrow. One major difference, however, is that as often as not, real lives don't have happy endings."
>
> -End-
>
>
> Saku"So, what do you think?"ra

When I first read it I thought "Sounds like me" but nobody ever beats me up. I don't know if they could if they wanted to. I'm a bit big for most people. Also I would never kill myself. Much too messy.

The story was cool. A bit unrealistic I think. I don't think anyone could walk in on a corpse and just have a single tear. Symbolically it's good. Showing how teens who commit suicide can feel like no one in the world cares about them. Did you have any motivation for this piece? A friend or something? Just curious.

Mel"It was a bit depressing"anie