Warning: this story contains themes of suicidal thoughts/actions, physical and emotional abuse, and serious mental health problems. If you or anyone you know is struggling please reach out for help at an appropriate organization. I will leave some links to helpful organizations below.

My alarm rang and I slowly and groggily get to an upright position, my back and neck ache from sleeping on them wrong. I get out of my twin bed and walk over to my window. I open the curtains and let in a blinding wave of light.

Outside the sky is a dreary shade of gray with clouds and mist floating around in the air. The trees looked as though they were covered in shining jewels and they sagged with their weight, little squirrels ran through the boughs of the trees, and rabbits are playing in the grass.

I turn from the window to get dressed. I pull on an oversized black hoodie and a pair of dark wash jeans. After struggling with a hairbrush and a large rubber band, I put my hair up in something resembling a bun. It is a mess, dark curly hair in a lump above my head. I don’t care enough to try and make it better. I have no one I need to impress at school. 

I take one last look in the mirror. There are dark circles I could probably cover and blemishes all over my face but I don’t have the time or energy to fix those. I open the door to my room and smell the scent of bacon and eggs being cooked. I almost fall down the stairs as I run to get my favorite meal.

“It’s a woman’s place to be in the kitchen,” my mother always says. She has virtually no life, always cooking or cleaning, or taking care of my other siblings. My family is a 1950s poster family. My father works all day to provide for us, my mother plays the role of a doting housewife, and my siblings and I are being raised to be perfect poster children.

I’m not perfect though I’m “supposed” to be a girl, I’m “supposed” to be a quiet, meek, background character, I’m “supposed” to get a husband who will take care of everything, I’m “supposed” to have children. I have NONE of these qualities. I am just pretending, pretending to be all of these things even though I’m not one.

“Morning!” I say in my most polite voice.

“Good morning, Samantha,” My mother says correcting me, “try again.”

“Good morning!” I say again, Why does it matter how I greet you mother? 

“Much better dear,” Mother says with a pleasant smile, “come eat.”

I sit down at the table and in front of me, my mother places a plate with bacon and an omelet. I pick up a fork and stab some bacon, I place it in my mouth and it almost melts into a pool of fatty deliciousness. I take a bite of omelet. it is warm and buttery with tomatoes to add some acidity. A Monday special.

“Have a good day at school,” my mom says as I get up from the table. I grab my bag and leave the house.

I feel the cool autumn breeze on my face as I round the corners and step over holes in the pavement. 

My school is, well, something. The halls are always full of students skipping classes, and food that has been thrown around and smashed up so much that no one wants to eat it or pick it up, the adults, who are supposed to be in control of this and on top of everything, just dole out lunch detentions that nobody goes to. 

I get to the school and my friend, Devan is there waiting for me. Devan is the only one who knows me. I moved to this school just a week ago after I beat someone up so bad it left dents permanently in the person’s bones. After that, I started on about five different pills. But even after that, Devan remained my best and only friend.

“Hello! How are you on this fine morning, Sam?” Devan asked in a chipper tone of voice.

“Fine,” I answer in a monotone.

“I can tell that you aren’t. What’s wrong?” Devan responded.

“I am thinking about coming out to my parents,” there it was, the bomb. The words that I was afraid to say and afraid to hear.

“Wow,” Devan’s eyes almost popped out of his skull, “But aren’t they like, super queerphobic?”

“They are all the phobics. Not just queer.” I say matter of factly.

“Wooow, an equal opportunity bigot!” Devon says dryly.

“It’s ok,” I assure him, “if they try to send me to conversion therapy I’ll just run to your house!” I smile and he smiles too. I hug him around the shoulders and we walk into the building.

Seeing as I  just transferred, I don’t have a locker so I just go to my class and sit down. 

A few minutes later the bell rings and people start pooling into the room. They sit down in clusters, friends sitting with friends. A girl with blonde hair and a dress that made her look like she was going on a date with the prince of some faraway land walked up to me.

“Ummm, this is normally where me and my friends sit. Would you like, move?” she said in that voice they give mean girls in high school movies.

I look around the room and see that the only other seat is right in between two cliques that currently were fighting.

“I’m okay thanks,” I say politely.

“You little-” the blonde starts to say when the teacher says,

“Clarissa Barnum, please stop harassing the new student,” the teacher says blankly.

The teacher then starts doing attendance after saying a few names I hear my name, “Samantha Palmer?”

“Umm actually I prefer to be called Sam,” I reply nervously

“Ok Sam, remind me if I forget,” the teacher says in a kind, understanding tone of voice.

“Ewwww,” I hear someone say, “are you like, a guy or something!” a few people laugh behind me.

I look down towards my feet,  is this what they think of people who are different from them? That we are ugly or disgusting? I bring my head up and say, “No, I’m not a boy. I’m not a girl either. If you have a problem with that you can have a conversation with my fists.” to the class, I must have sounded confident when I said that. But really, I was shaking with fear inside. What if they tell my parents? What if I end up getting beat up? And as I thought those thoughts, those dangerous worries that crept up beside me and threatened to swallow me whole, I felt it.

Someone was shooting wet pieces of paper at the back of my head and neck. I reached back to brush them off of me when another one nailed me in the hand. I turned around and the person sitting behind me continued to shoot wet paper at me only this time at my face!

“Could you stop?” I ask frustratedly

“Why should I?” he asked 

“Because it’s rude!” I say to him, “you should respect people!”

“Well, in my book, you aren’t a person,” the boy said with a look of pure evil on his face, “you’re a freak of nature!”

That was the last straw. I got up from my chair, turned to face him, and grabbed his shirt collar. You should say goodbye to your precious bone structure, I think before throwing the first punch.

 It hits him solidly in the jaw, I hear the popping sound of joints dislocating and the gasps of people in the class. I throw another punch, and another, and again and again, until his face is nothing but a bloody mush and he is limp. My hands were covered in his bright red blood. Did I kill him? I thought. The scariest part about it is that I didn’t care if I had.

Luckily he was breathing. He attempts to get up but instead of helping him, I push him back down.

“You are the freak, not me,” I say. That is when security finally gets there, and they drag me away.

I was sitting in the principal's office when my feelings finally came back. I felt the sting in my fists from punching that boy so hard, I felt the stickiness of the blood, I felt the guilt in my stomach. This was just like last time. Tears started falling from my eyes, I’m a monster, this is why I have no friends, this is why they say I’m a freak, I’m terrible, why did I do that! The tears started falling even faster as sobs shook my whole body.

I vaguely remember the rest of the day. The principal says something about not condoning violence, I get a combination for a locker, I drift through math, and science, and P.E., I just block out the rest of the world until I can get home and take my pills. Finally, I hear the bell ring and I exit the school. I see Devan hanging out with his friends, but I don’t bother to go over to him. I don’t need people thinking that he’s weird too.

I fast walk home and go straight to my room. As soon as I’m in my room I start falling apart. My legs stop working, my body starts shaking, and my tears start falling as fast as a waterfall after a flood. I crawl over to my desk and grab the bottles of pills. One after another I take them, I don’t even get the glass of water that is sitting on my nightstand. My throat feels dry and my head hurts but the pain is gone.

I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna tell my parents. I got up to a standing position and walked downstairs.

My mother, as always, is standing in the kitchen cooking a meal.

“Mom?” I call, nervous about how this conversation will play out.

“Yes, dear?” My mother calls back.

“Could you come here? I have something to tell you.” My mother walked out of the kitchen and sat down on the couch next to me.

“What is it?” My mother asks, “W-why do you look so serious Samantha?”

“Mom, I am not a girl,” I start, “I go by Sam, my pronouns are they/them and I have never liked a boy.” I sit there watching my mother take in this new information.

Suddenly she starts yelling at me, “SAMANTHA! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU A DEVIL WORSHIPPER LIKE YOUR UNCLE WILLIAM? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE NORMAL? WHY CAN’T YOU BE PERFECT LIKE YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS?” My mother stops yelling, she breathes in and out, clutching the upholstery as if her life depended on it, “Samantha, we can talk about this. I know this is probably something all the cool kids at school are doing but do not give in! God loves his creations, but only when they follow his rules!” My mother looks at me as if she is pleading for me to be “normal.”

Tears of anger and sadness drip down my face as I shake my head no. “I’m sorry, mother, but this is my life and I will live it how I choose.” my whole body shakes as I start to get up from the couch. Then smack! My mother, the person who is supposed to love and cherish me, slapped me across the face. 

“You are no daughter of mine,” she says, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU HEATHEN, YOU FREAK, YOU DEMON!!” I scramble from the couch and run up the stairs to my room. I’m done. I don’t care anymore. Tears stream down my cheeks and into my mouth and down to the floor. I grab the bottles of medicine, I can’t anymore. I can’t do this anymore. I dump the contents of each bottle into my mouth, swallowing bottle after bottle of pills.

I finish off the last bottle and run back down the stairs. I don’t bother putting on shoes or grabbing my keys, where I’m going, I won’t need those. I don’t want to be here anymore. Why do I have to be here! I leave the front door wide open and start running.

The cold air pricks my skin as I rush through the streets. I don’t need to be here anymore. I want to leave! I run as fast as I can ignoring the sharp pain in my chest and the prick of concrete on my bare feet. I finally reach my destination, the bridge that goes over the freeway. There is a tall fence on the side that overlooks it but I don’t care. I know how to climb. I grab the rungs with my hands and feet, struggling to pull myself up. When I do this, It will all be over. I won’t be in pain anymore. I reach the top and throw myself into the traffic down below.