Untitled. Think of one later

I shouldn't be here. You should. I should be dead. Forgotten, and buried. It wasn't your time to go, yet you took the stake for me. Why? Your life is more valued than mine. You had more to live for than I did. You had people who wanted you here, I didn't.
I had no one. No one to claim me when I awoke in the hospital bed 3 years ago, with no memory of anything that had happened to me that day. No memory, until I saw your face. Still and lifeless, pale and dead. It made me remember everything. The day, place, what had happened. I remembered everything, except who I was.
I had no idea my name was Megan, that I was 18, that my parents were divorced and lived in separate parts of the world, and that my dad didn't give a fuck about me. So even if he found out what had happened to me, he would have somehow made it seem like my fault. It's what he done best, which is why I left. I moved out 4 months ago, shortly after my 18th birthday on March 16th. I'd been living with my boyfriend Kyle for the 4 months I've been away from home. He's 19, so not much of an age difference.
I would have stayed with my mum, but she was no better. She's an alcoholic and gets aggressive after a few drinks. She used to hit me for no reason after she'd had a drink, shout at me over things that were her fault. She told me I didn't deserve to live and that if it wasn't illegal, or if she wouldn't get found out, she'd end my life herself. She once held a knife to me and said she wouldn't regret stabbing me, that it would make her smile knowing that she bought me into this world, and took me out of it. I used to be her pride and joy, until the drink turned her into the monster she is now. She told me she lost all respect for me when I started to argue back, when I told her she had a problem and walked out. She never followed me, so I never went back.

I've been reading a stack of books from inside my wardrobe since the day I lost my memory. I read them every day without fail. There are 42 books and I'm on number 16, I'd like to say I enjoy reading them, but that would be a lie. It feels really strange because the dark, twisted and depressing things that are written in these books would disturb a lot of people, including me. Especially me. I won't stop reading them because I don't like them, I read them to try and shed some light on the past.
These aren't normal reading books. These are my diaries from the last 10 years. I find it hard to believe that everything I'd written had hardly ever been happy. I'd always have family problems of some kind, or trouble from school, or with friends. I haven't been happy for the past 10 years, I think that forgetting my life was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.