Too Much To Handle
Title: Too Much To Handle
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,193
Disclaimer: I own everything.
Note: Really dark and angsty.
Warning: Self-mutilation, suicide.
FictionPress Link: here.
Summary: Her body is here and alive, but she is dead inside.
She is sitting in the darkness of her room, legs folded underneath her and looking straight ahead. Her long black hair is falling limply around her face, and her emerald green eyes have since long lost their sparkle of life.
Life. Her body is here and alive, but she is dead inside.
Her life has become routine. Getting up, getting dressed, eating breakfast, going to school, dragging along the day, going home, walk around in circles all evening, barely eat at dinner, go to sleep… She has no friends, no social life.
Her father is a criminal, a murderer. A year ago, her walked into a movie theater with a gun and killed eleven people. Suddenly, people started to walk away from her. Her friends started ignoring her, and her mother fell into depression and started drinking. She is totally oblivious to her surroundings - which include her own daughters. Her older sister doesn't care as well. When she is home and not out and about with her troublesome boyfriend, the thought of checking on her never crosses her mind.
Slowly she, too, started to break down, locking herself in her bedroom, Then, she picked up an habit which she can't get rid of: cutting. Under the dark long-sleeved shirts she wears every day are several cuts, recent and old, zigzagging on her arms.
She looks out of her window. The pitch-black sky represents perfectly how she feels inside. She feels tired, drained. Sick of constantly walking on her mother passed out on the couch, a dozen of empty bottles all around her. Fed up with people pointing and whispering when she walks by.
With a loud scream, she grabs her clock and throws it in the general direction of the mirror; a shattering sound is heard as the projectile hits its target and the pieces of glass scatter the floor. She knows nobody will come up and see what is going on; they are used to her tendency to throw and break things. Plus, there is the fact that they wouldn't even care.
She starts shaking, and buries her face in her hands, her hair forming a dark curtain around her. She begins to cry softly, almost ashamed of herself, feeling she isn't even worth those tears that are her own.
Life has become too much to handle. For the past year, cutting has always been her only escape. Pain is the only thing that makes her forger about everything else.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she pushes herself off the bed and sits on the floor. Kneeling in the middle of the mess, her legs bloody but not caring, she picks up a shard of glass with a trembling hand. Pressing it against her skin, she draws a line. The glass tears the skin apart easily; blood trickles down her arm. She traces a second line on her forearm, parallel to the first, then a third line appears, and fourth, and a fifth… A small puddle of crimson liquid is forming on the floor.
She stretches her arm out in front of her, and stares at the bloody lines. Curling her hand into a fist, she watches as a big blue vein stands out against the blood-stained white of her skin. Without hesitation, she brings the shard to her arm once again, and the skin splits. Blood forms, but doesn't come out; the cut isn't deep enough.
She cuts again, deeper. This time crimson liquid pours out, and she slightly wince in pain. Biting her lip, she digs the shard deeper into the cut, now determined to end this once for all.
Blood trickles down onto the floor. Dizziness overcomes her, and the room starts to spin. The piece of glass drops from her hand. Slowly, almost as though in slow-motion, she falls to the ground.
Blackness takes upon her. She merely is a limp form on the floor.
And this time, she won't wake up.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,193
Disclaimer: I own everything.
Note: Really dark and angsty.
Warning: Self-mutilation, suicide.
FictionPress Link: here.
Summary: Her body is here and alive, but she is dead inside.
She is sitting in the darkness of her room, legs folded underneath her and looking straight ahead. Her long black hair is falling limply around her face, and her emerald green eyes have since long lost their sparkle of life.
Life. Her body is here and alive, but she is dead inside.
Her life has become routine. Getting up, getting dressed, eating breakfast, going to school, dragging along the day, going home, walk around in circles all evening, barely eat at dinner, go to sleep… She has no friends, no social life.
Her father is a criminal, a murderer. A year ago, her walked into a movie theater with a gun and killed eleven people. Suddenly, people started to walk away from her. Her friends started ignoring her, and her mother fell into depression and started drinking. She is totally oblivious to her surroundings - which include her own daughters. Her older sister doesn't care as well. When she is home and not out and about with her troublesome boyfriend, the thought of checking on her never crosses her mind.
Slowly she, too, started to break down, locking herself in her bedroom, Then, she picked up an habit which she can't get rid of: cutting. Under the dark long-sleeved shirts she wears every day are several cuts, recent and old, zigzagging on her arms.
She looks out of her window. The pitch-black sky represents perfectly how she feels inside. She feels tired, drained. Sick of constantly walking on her mother passed out on the couch, a dozen of empty bottles all around her. Fed up with people pointing and whispering when she walks by.
With a loud scream, she grabs her clock and throws it in the general direction of the mirror; a shattering sound is heard as the projectile hits its target and the pieces of glass scatter the floor. She knows nobody will come up and see what is going on; they are used to her tendency to throw and break things. Plus, there is the fact that they wouldn't even care.
She starts shaking, and buries her face in her hands, her hair forming a dark curtain around her. She begins to cry softly, almost ashamed of herself, feeling she isn't even worth those tears that are her own.
Life has become too much to handle. For the past year, cutting has always been her only escape. Pain is the only thing that makes her forger about everything else.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she pushes herself off the bed and sits on the floor. Kneeling in the middle of the mess, her legs bloody but not caring, she picks up a shard of glass with a trembling hand. Pressing it against her skin, she draws a line. The glass tears the skin apart easily; blood trickles down her arm. She traces a second line on her forearm, parallel to the first, then a third line appears, and fourth, and a fifth… A small puddle of crimson liquid is forming on the floor.
She stretches her arm out in front of her, and stares at the bloody lines. Curling her hand into a fist, she watches as a big blue vein stands out against the blood-stained white of her skin. Without hesitation, she brings the shard to her arm once again, and the skin splits. Blood forms, but doesn't come out; the cut isn't deep enough.
She cuts again, deeper. This time crimson liquid pours out, and she slightly wince in pain. Biting her lip, she digs the shard deeper into the cut, now determined to end this once for all.
Blood trickles down onto the floor. Dizziness overcomes her, and the room starts to spin. The piece of glass drops from her hand. Slowly, almost as though in slow-motion, she falls to the ground.
Blackness takes upon her. She merely is a limp form on the floor.
And this time, she won't wake up.