house
She had always known what it would come down to. It couldn't be avoided, really. This was how it always happened, how things always came to a breaking point. Keeping things bottled up led to explosions, and all that.
At times she wished it wasn't that way. Sometimes she was glad it was.
It had all started with a conversation she'd heard during lunch. It was nothing special, just an exchange of tales between two girls who'd gone to a nearby river over the weekend. One of them had a house there, and that was where they had gone. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and they had no reason to think otherwise of the trip and the retelling of it.
There was nothing wrong with their story. It's just that, sometimes, even the most innocent things have the most dire consequences. On that day, it was.
Across the lunch table from them sat a girl who was smiling slightly, politely. Her hands were folded over a book that lay before her on the table, the only thing there. She hadn't brought a lunch with her to school in ages, as everyone knew. Not everyone knew why, however, and perhaps that was what kept them from noticing when the girl fell silent. They didn't know why she would cease from the comforting chatter, so it didn't bother them. The two continued telling their tales, laughing all the while.
She wasn't smiling anymore. They never noticed. Or, if they did, they kept their questions to themselves.
The girl cast her eyes down, tracing the design on the front of her book over and over. She had something of a history with the place they were talking about so avidly, and with the family that went there every so often. It was a history then two or three years old, known in part by only two people aside from herself. Of those two, one was her best friend of four years, and the other....
She bit down on her bottom lip, worrying it as her eyes darkened. This was no time to think of such things, but that didn't stop her mind from wandering. Her hands fisted where they rested on the book. She knew it was a futile battle.
It was past the half-way mark for time spent in the lunchroom. She could go back to the classroom. She did. No one noticed.
She slid into her desk, setting her book in its place without quite realizing what she was doing. She didn't need to know, not really. The girl's routine would be interrupted by nothing. She had built her life off of routines.
Lately, this had become one of them.
She cradled her head in her hands, face shielded from the outside by a curtain of dark hair. She needed it now. The other students had returned from lunch, each going to their assigned desks with white walls separating each from the other. The students didn't talk during class. No one did.
She stared down at her desk, eyes wide and unseeing. All around her came the shuffle of papers, the scuff of feet, the scrape of chair legs against tile. All this came, yet none reached her. The girl had fallen into herself, and she was drowning.
Had anyone happened by her desk, they probably wouldn't have noticed anything wrong. She knew what she was known for odd things and strange faces. If her behavior were ever strange, that was only normal for her. That was why her faster breathing, her darting eyes would have been shrugged off by anyone who noticed. She was alone, and it was her fault.
It was always her fault.
She smiled, tears in her eyes. It wasn't a pretty smile. It was one of a shattered mask, each mirror piece slowly replaced by the bleeding hands that first broke it. The rictus stretched and warped as her hand rose to her chest, clawing at the area where she'd heard the heart resided. She couldn't feel anything there, just a hollow greyness that ached so much.
"You know kitten," she whispered conversationally to herself, "you can't cry here. They'll all see, then they'll ask why, then you'll just make trouble for everyone. You always do that. You always cause trouble, hurt people, make people hate you. You can't do that again, you know. Come on kitten, let's end this. Let's feel something again."
Breaking point.
She began to gasp, lungs suddenly unable to gather the oxygen required for life. Her hands fisted, nails digging into her palm to the point of indents that lasted for days. Her face contorted into an expression that can never be rightly described. Perhaps because it was an expression of pain she knew was there, but that couldn't be felt. The girl was outside her body now, or so it felt.
She couldn't get back inside, and that frightened her.
Her hands shaking, she slowly reached for the scissors she kept on her desk. It was a very simple, no-nonsense pair, perfect for her use. She'd most likely found them by rummaging through the house for school supplies, but that didn't matter now. They were there in her hand, solid and reliable. That's what mattered.
She laid her left arm on her desk, underside up. It was already scarred - she had done this before. This was the routine. This would work where nothing else had.
The girl, smiling grimly, swiped the blade of the scissors down. A line, a frowning mouth, opened across the skin. For a second it was only shiny tissue, the layer below the uppermost skin, and then blood began to slowly seep in the cracks.
It wasn't enough.
So she did it again, and again, and again. Line after line opened, the frowning mouths filling with crimson seconds after creation. When all was said and done a total of twelve marks decorated from her arm, red tears slipping from a few, but not many.
The girl leaned her head against the wall of her desk, smiling in sad triumph as the scissors slipped from her grasp. Her eyes, dry as bones left in the desert sun, didn't shine anymore.
She had won.
At times she wished it wasn't that way. Sometimes she was glad it was.
It had all started with a conversation she'd heard during lunch. It was nothing special, just an exchange of tales between two girls who'd gone to a nearby river over the weekend. One of them had a house there, and that was where they had gone. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and they had no reason to think otherwise of the trip and the retelling of it.
There was nothing wrong with their story. It's just that, sometimes, even the most innocent things have the most dire consequences. On that day, it was.
Across the lunch table from them sat a girl who was smiling slightly, politely. Her hands were folded over a book that lay before her on the table, the only thing there. She hadn't brought a lunch with her to school in ages, as everyone knew. Not everyone knew why, however, and perhaps that was what kept them from noticing when the girl fell silent. They didn't know why she would cease from the comforting chatter, so it didn't bother them. The two continued telling their tales, laughing all the while.
She wasn't smiling anymore. They never noticed. Or, if they did, they kept their questions to themselves.
The girl cast her eyes down, tracing the design on the front of her book over and over. She had something of a history with the place they were talking about so avidly, and with the family that went there every so often. It was a history then two or three years old, known in part by only two people aside from herself. Of those two, one was her best friend of four years, and the other....
She bit down on her bottom lip, worrying it as her eyes darkened. This was no time to think of such things, but that didn't stop her mind from wandering. Her hands fisted where they rested on the book. She knew it was a futile battle.
It was past the half-way mark for time spent in the lunchroom. She could go back to the classroom. She did. No one noticed.
She slid into her desk, setting her book in its place without quite realizing what she was doing. She didn't need to know, not really. The girl's routine would be interrupted by nothing. She had built her life off of routines.
Lately, this had become one of them.
She cradled her head in her hands, face shielded from the outside by a curtain of dark hair. She needed it now. The other students had returned from lunch, each going to their assigned desks with white walls separating each from the other. The students didn't talk during class. No one did.
She stared down at her desk, eyes wide and unseeing. All around her came the shuffle of papers, the scuff of feet, the scrape of chair legs against tile. All this came, yet none reached her. The girl had fallen into herself, and she was drowning.
Had anyone happened by her desk, they probably wouldn't have noticed anything wrong. She knew what she was known for odd things and strange faces. If her behavior were ever strange, that was only normal for her. That was why her faster breathing, her darting eyes would have been shrugged off by anyone who noticed. She was alone, and it was her fault.
It was always her fault.
She smiled, tears in her eyes. It wasn't a pretty smile. It was one of a shattered mask, each mirror piece slowly replaced by the bleeding hands that first broke it. The rictus stretched and warped as her hand rose to her chest, clawing at the area where she'd heard the heart resided. She couldn't feel anything there, just a hollow greyness that ached so much.
"You know kitten," she whispered conversationally to herself, "you can't cry here. They'll all see, then they'll ask why, then you'll just make trouble for everyone. You always do that. You always cause trouble, hurt people, make people hate you. You can't do that again, you know. Come on kitten, let's end this. Let's feel something again."
Breaking point.
She began to gasp, lungs suddenly unable to gather the oxygen required for life. Her hands fisted, nails digging into her palm to the point of indents that lasted for days. Her face contorted into an expression that can never be rightly described. Perhaps because it was an expression of pain she knew was there, but that couldn't be felt. The girl was outside her body now, or so it felt.
She couldn't get back inside, and that frightened her.
Her hands shaking, she slowly reached for the scissors she kept on her desk. It was a very simple, no-nonsense pair, perfect for her use. She'd most likely found them by rummaging through the house for school supplies, but that didn't matter now. They were there in her hand, solid and reliable. That's what mattered.
She laid her left arm on her desk, underside up. It was already scarred - she had done this before. This was the routine. This would work where nothing else had.
The girl, smiling grimly, swiped the blade of the scissors down. A line, a frowning mouth, opened across the skin. For a second it was only shiny tissue, the layer below the uppermost skin, and then blood began to slowly seep in the cracks.
It wasn't enough.
So she did it again, and again, and again. Line after line opened, the frowning mouths filling with crimson seconds after creation. When all was said and done a total of twelve marks decorated from her arm, red tears slipping from a few, but not many.
The girl leaned her head against the wall of her desk, smiling in sad triumph as the scissors slipped from her grasp. Her eyes, dry as bones left in the desert sun, didn't shine anymore.
She had won.