Today was the day. Today was the day I turned fourteen, an age I never wanted to reach. It was a Friday, and I was dreading school as it was, let alone having it be my birthday. I was not expecting anyone to say happy birthday, or even give me an extra glance that day. I didn’t want anyone to, either.
Attention was a horrible thing to me. It scared me. A lot. Feeling the eyes on me, looking at each and every flaw I had was a killer. I could almost hear the disgust on their faces as they looked me up and down.
“Look how fat she is!”
“Oh my God, her face is disgusting.”
“She is hideous!”
“I’d die if I looked like her!”
A few people did say happy birthday to me, but probably only because Facebook reminded them. Why would people remember the day I was born? I didn’t even want to. It was just the mark of another failure in my pointless life. I was sick of it.
When I finally got home, I just wanted to sleep, but I couldn’t. I’d be going out to dinner with my family, and I needed to seem upbeat enough for that.
We had dinner at a restaurant; I can’t remember which. My cheeks burned red when “Happy Birthday” was sung to me. Everyone was looking at me. It was pure torture to me.
Time seemed endless, as I was sitting there, embarrassed, and ashamed. Luckily, I was able to keep my cool. It was difficult, though. As much as I wanted to break down crying, I couldn’t. No one could see how bad I was. It had to remain a secret.
I decided I would make the promise to myself to not reach my fifteenth birthday. I would have another year to successfully kill myself now. I had to keep a straight face, though, as I had to go to the football game and perform.
I went through the game, just laughing and messing around. I tried to let go of my feelings, but it didn’t work entirely. Sometimes, even things that were once your biggest passions can’t even help you. I went onto the field, played my saxophone and marched the show. I didn’t feel any better. I was lost.