---Alia’’
This was the note they found on my desk in my room in 21st December, 1998. My name as you can tell, is Alia, I’m 19 years old. I’m the eldest daughter of my parents. They have another a kids Amit. My little brother. I was my parent’s mistake, unwanted creation. There Alia.
I guess my suicide surprised most of my town. I mean I was the popular high school cheerleader at BK High School. I had tons of friends. But that doesn't make someone happy. Love makes someone happy, and I don't mean the love of a friend or a dog or a boyfriend or girlfriend. I mean the love of a parent. Of a proud mother when you're in a stunt that hits perfectly. Of a loving father who's comforting you after a breakup. Of the two lovers who created you. Who had you and raised you. The love every child should get.
It seems I was one of the few unlucky who didn't get their fair share. I mean the first three years were alright, if you can count them considering I don't remember them! I was mom's baby, daddy's little girl. Then they had Amit. He was perfect! A perfect boy I overheard them say about my younger brother.
Amit was treated like a prince; I was treated like a peasant. No a slave, that's worse. Our dog Lyka was treated better than me! I guess things change, huh? Well along came he and my life was horrible ever since! Most people thought I was lucky; popular, cheerleader, had thousands of friends, and twice as many boys chasing after me. But I wasn't. This made it all worse actually. To see my friend Maya talking to her mom at the movies when she picked us up. To see the strong bond between them. It was something I'd lost long ago, something I once shared with my mother. Not anymore.
Or when I saw my friend, Ratul and his step-dad at the lake when he took the two of us fishing when we were eight. To see the wide smile on his face when his father praised him for catching a bass. I never had that happen. Not when I caught the mouse that scared my mom. Not when I scrapped my knuckles from beating up the three boys at the park who was messing with my brother. Not when I made the winning home run in my little league baseball game. Not once.
This all made me worse. Made the yearning I held for my mother and father's love harder to hold. I needed their love. I wanted it. But So bad, I didn't get it. Not once. I was the friend who comforted my sad ones. The ones who cried because they didn't get the video game they wanted. Or because their mom shouted at them. I was the one sitting beside them, telling them it was okay and smiling. I was the one who you'd see walking down the hall on one of your worst days, I'd smile and try and cheer you up. I was her. But inside I was dying. I was yearning for someone to embrace me. For someone to care about me, to ask me how my day was, to tell me everything was going to be alright. I was waiting for someone to care about me. That day never came. Sadly! I was the girl who was really crying herself to sleep each night, praying to God before starting her routine that the following day would bring her parent's love. It never did. I was slowly losing faith in one of my only true friends. God and Stripes, my stuffed tiger I got a few weeks before Amit was born. I loved correction; love Stripes! She was my best friend. I told her everything, confided in her. She felt my hurt, she felt my pain. And she was there for me. When the pain was too much I'd dig her out of my closet, my dad called my weak for keeping her so I hid her often, and hold her close to my chest. When I died Stripes was old and ratty. She'd been through a lot in her ten years: throw up from car rides, in which my dad would call me weak and stupid for getting car sick on long car rides; rips from being tugged at one too many times; her once velvety pink nose was now cold and hard, the velvet having been kissed off; and she was soaked in my salty tears. Mom and Dad probably threw her out. I wouldn't be surprised.
Well I finally decided I wanted to die, after all the ridicule my parents put me through. I was often called stupid, a bitch, a jackass, a dick. Pretty much anything you could think of. I was considered evil, a bitchy witch to my family. Every one of them. All this name calling, beatings and threats finally pushed me over the rocky cliff I was balanced on. The bruises that never seemed to fade. The heart that was broken at age three. The girl who was ruined from the start. I was a mistake. An accident. I was nothing. I problem. I did everyone a favor by committing suicide. I got rid of another mistake. Another problem. Another accident. Another bitch. Another weakling my parent's would have to look out for. Another nuisance. I hope I finally make my parents proud.