I canâ€™t take it anymore.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">I canâ€™t take their fighting</span>. Two people get married to fucking love each other, not to bicker and argue; oblivious to the other issues around them. Theyâ€™re like<span style="font-style: italic">dogs</span>â€¦just yelling, always echoing through the house. And you know what I really hate? I hate when they know I care. Thatâ€™s why I always act so freakinâ€™ blank and bland around them. With even the hint of emotion, they turn into these perfect, fake parents. Though, I know whatâ€™s really going on. They send secret signals out to each other. They still fight, even if itâ€™s in their heads.<br/><br/>I canâ€™t take these voices. With each pulse of my heart comes a pound at my brain, which doesnâ€™t help the audience I have up in there. Well, not really an audience. Itâ€™s normally two â€œpeopleâ€. The first â€œpersonâ€ is normally someone or something Iâ€™ve actually heard; something I (subconsciously) know will piss me off in the long run. They say the same damn thing over and over like a fuckinâ€™ broken record. That always gets me in a bad mood. Next is the second â€œpersonâ€. Now this oneâ€™s a bit crafty. It sounds like me, but it isnâ€™t me. It knows every little insignificant detail about me; from my weaknesses to my addictions. They give me a whole lecture, like the ones you get from your coach in high school, about how much of a piece of crap I am. Their goal is to make me feel like total shit.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">And, itâ€™s working.<br/></span><br/>I havenâ€™t been getting any sleep. Iâ€™m lucky if I get maybe four hours in a night. And, thatâ€™s<span style="font-style: italic">with</span>pills. Oh, God, how I love pills. Pills, alcohol, and cigarettes; I like to call it P.A.C. They almost always take whateverâ€™s on my mind away. Almost like a stress reliever. And Iâ€™ve been under<span style="font-weight: bold">a lot</span>of stress lately.<br/><br/>It isnâ€™t just the fact my parents hate each other, or the voices in my head. Itâ€™s the revelation that my so-called â€œboyfriendâ€ isâ€¦a ghost.<span style="font-style: italic">Yeah, I didnâ€™t believe it first time I heard it either</span>. Hell, I thought I was dreaming, but itâ€™s true. I found all the proof. He was the shooter of the high school massacre of â€™94; a fellow student himself. They found him at his house. They as in like fifty million SWAT guys. And, guess where his house is?<span style="font-weight: bold">Itâ€™s right fucking next to mine</span>.<br/><br/>Long story short, SWAT team shot him. Seventeen times in the chest; I told you I got all the dirty little details. He doesnâ€™t know heâ€™s dead. And, his mom wants me to keep another secret from him. She says he canâ€™t handle it. But, I know my Tate. Heâ€™s strong.<br/><br/>I still wonâ€™t tell him, not yet. Not because Iâ€™m scared. Iâ€™m not scared of anything. Iâ€™mâ€¦worried for him.<br/><br/>God, Iâ€™m fucking ranting again. Ranting like a damn fan girl. Maybe a couple pills will helpâ€¦<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic">*Violet took a swig from her Vodka filled canteen and popped five or six pills in her mouth*</span></span><br/><br/>Or, maybe, the whole damn bottleâ€¦