Meet me on the bridge

Chapter 1

My name is not important. At least it won't be. At the end of this story you will understand why it isn't, why it won't be. Already it isn't a great start to my story, but someone has to know. Right? Or was my life just that meaningless.

Where do I start? Birth like every single clique depressing story? Because that isn't where it started. It started 3 years ago, on my freshman year. I was 15. Thinking about it just makes me so sad, I thought high school was going to be good.

I was wrong, as you can see, 15, scared, alone, and shy. What a combo entering high school. Only one good thing happened in my freshmen year of that terrible place. I made a friend, he had brown hair that he let me style, brown eyes that reminded me of chocolate, tan very tan, and tall.

He was my only friend there, he was always by my side. Even if it was him that I was crying over, of course he never knew it. He dated a few people while I knew him. And every person that got the chance to kiss him, I had hope he would see that I was better.

I wasn't. I was a broken soul that would stare in the distance. Thinking of him. Days would go by where he talked about the person he was seeing, I never bothered to remember their name. All I knew it wasn't me.

Some days he could tell I didn't want to talk. He was so close to me that on those days, he would hold me. He let me cry in his arms. Knowing how bad everything was getting he just held me, until I fell asleep in his arms.

Names were never important to me, people left me so much that I just stopped caring about names. Until his brown eyes met mine and he flashed a smile across the way. Little did he know he made a depressed boy fall for him.

His voice would ring in my ears when I was alone in the one place I hated most. I hated myself for falling for him. Because if he knew he would blame himself for this. When he was slowly making me happy.

If I haven't met him, I believe I would be dead by now. I blame him. His laugh, his smile, he stupid jokes, and his eyes. I blame myself. For looking up, for smiling back, for letting him talk to me, for me ruining his life.

I remember sitting on my bed hoping that my parents won't walk in. But they did. My father speaking clearly, anger surging through his voice.

"We notice you haven't been eating, at all. And I know you are doing it for attention so get your ass down stairs and eat what your mother cooked. Or I will drag you down there and force you to eat." Word for word, stabbing into my heart.

"I doubt you would, you say that but you never do." I mumbled which was my own mistake.

He walked slowly to me, my heart racing in now fear and regret for opening my mouth. I knew better, I knew better than to talk back. I look him dead in the eyes. His hand tangled in my hair pulling me up.

Papers flying around in my room from my black bed, me trying to get up from the floor just to be kicked down. Kicked, punched, and dragged around my room, down the stairs and finally to my mother. Her eyes wide in horror of the sight. Her son on the floor coughing up blood.

Blood that wasn't supposed to leave my body. Blood hat would have left anyway if I cut. I spit out blood, my arms shaking as I try to get up to be kicked down again.

"Listen faggot, you do not talk back to your father unless you want to be six feet under the damn ground. You worthless child, I knew your mother should have gotten rid of you!" He yelled louder walking away.

My sarcastic self chuckling blood leaving my mouth. "What a lovely promise and terrible thing to say-" I was cut off to me coughing slowly standing up.

After that I stop talking to my father, eating when he was gone, and hoping he wouldn't talk to me. I sadly had to deal with him anyway when he was drunk, when those days came I found it easier to stay in bed and text my friend.

Even that happiness would fad for when he texted I could feel my heart racing, so when that happened I would leave him on read scared of him finding out I love him. I sit in bed, alone I was always alone. My phone vibrating to his name.

Peter: Dude answer.
Peter: I will blow up your phone.
Peter: Chris..?

I sigh softly grabbing my phone letting my fingers glide across the screen typing.

Me: typing...
Peter, I don't feel like talking. I don't know what to say. What to say to you more than anyone. I'm sorry.

I bite my finger thinking about hitting that send button. Biting my lip as I gently press my thumb about that blue send.

Text message delivered.

His name popped up in a call as I start to panic shaking. Holding my phone tears falling. I wanted to hear his voice I missed his voice but I couldn't, not now.

Peter is calling. Peter is calling.

When it would stop ringing it would just start ringing again. Then I picked up the phone.