Untitled
She sits alone, legs crossed, staring at the wall. There's nothing there to look at, just white, crisp blankness. No colors, nothing. Just white and perfect and pure. She feels the anger well up in her, the consuming rage that she knows all too well. She welcomes it, like always. It makes her comfortable. So much better to give into it than feel nothing at all. Because that is what she is- nothing.
Ah, to destroy. To feel the power, fuel the anger, give herself over to the master and ruler of her life. A blinding rage, a need to destroy. To take something good, something nice and pure, and to break it, piece by piece. Crush it with her anger and to turn it into a fine dust that can blow away and scatter. She has a need to ruin, a need to break something good, a need to taint something and make it like her.
Faceless. Nameless. Nothing.
She refused to surround herself with anything good that she couldn't break or ruin. Sunshine was kept out with heavy curtains and closed eyes. Laughter was blocked with trembling hands put over her ears. Smiling was foreign and didn't belong to her.
No, she owned the rage. She owned the anger. She owned the bad.
The good was someone else's.
Her eyes remained on the wall as her fingers picked at the blanket beneath her. Make a hole, must destroy.
A single tear rolls down her cheek, unnoticed as it travels down her face and falls to the blanket below. Who caused that tear, that sadness? Who made her feel so shut out from the world of sunshine and laughter and substance? Who made her to be controlled by her own rage?
Why, they did.
That's what she told herself at night, that's what she repeated in her already cluttered mind, in order to give welcome to sweet release that sleep was. THEY were the ones with the hurtful words. THEY were the ones with the smiles that cut her like knives. THEY were the ones with pity in their shiny, empty eyes.
Pity. She loathed the word. She didn't need their pity. Didn't want their pity. If anything, they were worthy of her pity. So much belief in other people, the people around them, the things around them. And what happened when those people, those things, betrayed them? They stood up from where they had been knocked down to the ground, and nursed their wounds, and smiled and said, "Better luck next time."
She could feel the defiant cry rising in her constricted throat. No! It was wrong! Let the wounds stay undressed. Let them fester. Feel the sting, the burn, the pain. Learn from the pain. Gather knowledge from it. And when it heals over, pick at the wound, rip off the fresh skin. Let it become infected and then, only then, could you learn your lesson.
All her wounds were infected, why not theirs? Hers were rancid, smelling of the stomach turning gangrene that they had become. They throbbed with heat and pain, bringing tears to her eyes, but each of those wounds reminded her of her mistakes, the people who she had let too close to her. They were her daily reminder, and she would never let them close and heal. There was no healing. There was only pain.
A few of the wounds were caused by her. Her fingers moved over the soft skin of the inside of her wrist, tracing over the ladder like scars. Her one, pathetic attempt to take her life, to take herself out of this world. To make it end. It was just another way that she gave into the anger and the rage. She had been angry and she had raged and that was when she had picked up that shiny piece of metal and slashed it across her wrists.
The release of the pain made her feel good. She giggled, she remembered that. She giggled and she smiled. The last time she had laughed and smiled, in fact. The first cut felt so good that she went for the second cut, and then the third, and the fourth. Moved the metal from one hand to the other. Slashed at the skin on the other side. One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four cuts, five cuts. She had left it uneven, just how she was uneven. So many mistakes she had made with that action.
Shouldn't have been so loud. Should have had something to drink, to make the blood thinner. Should have plunged her wrists into warm water, in order to keep the cuts open. Should have cut in the other direction.
Remember, kids. Up the river, not across.
It didn't matter. They found her. THEY. The same ones that laughed and that said those bad things and grinned at her so that she felt it cut her inside. So many cuts on her, both visible and invisible. But it was the ones inside that hurt the most, wasn't it? Those were the real wounds, the ones that she had learned from.
It was so much better to be cold, to shut herself off from the pretty and the happy. So much better to give into the blackness, into the hurt, into the anger. She rocked back and forth with those thoughts, her eyes remaining firmly ahead on the white wall. How much better would it make her feel to see her blood, their blood, anyone's blood, thrown across it in some sort of abstract art. To see the brightness, the color, the wetness. Oh, God, it would make her feel so much better. It would be her release. She wanted a release. Needed a release, and the only release that she could think of would come in the form of her own blood.
What would they think if she sat there and gnashed with her own teeth at the skin of her wrists. She knew it was possible, had read about it. To eat her way to her own release. How wonderful, she thought. Her nails were long enough to pull at the flesh once she had a big enough hole, to tear and rip and make that hole that she so desperately wanted to make. It would be so easily, so long as she wasn't interupted.
The idea grew in her mind, and she couldn't help but giggle again. She had found her way out of this hell that they had put her in. She had found her release, and her laughter bounced off the walls and became louder and louder as her idea appealed to her more. Her head snapped around suddenly, hard enough to cause three sharp cracking sounds from her neck, as she looked towards the door. Once again, she had made the same mistake. Why hadn't she learned from that particular wound, she screamed to herself. They would hear and they would come running and they would stop her.
Immediately, she raised her wrist to her mouth and began to gnaw.
Ah, to destroy. To feel the power, fuel the anger, give herself over to the master and ruler of her life. A blinding rage, a need to destroy. To take something good, something nice and pure, and to break it, piece by piece. Crush it with her anger and to turn it into a fine dust that can blow away and scatter. She has a need to ruin, a need to break something good, a need to taint something and make it like her.
Faceless. Nameless. Nothing.
She refused to surround herself with anything good that she couldn't break or ruin. Sunshine was kept out with heavy curtains and closed eyes. Laughter was blocked with trembling hands put over her ears. Smiling was foreign and didn't belong to her.
No, she owned the rage. She owned the anger. She owned the bad.
The good was someone else's.
Her eyes remained on the wall as her fingers picked at the blanket beneath her. Make a hole, must destroy.
A single tear rolls down her cheek, unnoticed as it travels down her face and falls to the blanket below. Who caused that tear, that sadness? Who made her feel so shut out from the world of sunshine and laughter and substance? Who made her to be controlled by her own rage?
Why, they did.
That's what she told herself at night, that's what she repeated in her already cluttered mind, in order to give welcome to sweet release that sleep was. THEY were the ones with the hurtful words. THEY were the ones with the smiles that cut her like knives. THEY were the ones with pity in their shiny, empty eyes.
Pity. She loathed the word. She didn't need their pity. Didn't want their pity. If anything, they were worthy of her pity. So much belief in other people, the people around them, the things around them. And what happened when those people, those things, betrayed them? They stood up from where they had been knocked down to the ground, and nursed their wounds, and smiled and said, "Better luck next time."
She could feel the defiant cry rising in her constricted throat. No! It was wrong! Let the wounds stay undressed. Let them fester. Feel the sting, the burn, the pain. Learn from the pain. Gather knowledge from it. And when it heals over, pick at the wound, rip off the fresh skin. Let it become infected and then, only then, could you learn your lesson.
All her wounds were infected, why not theirs? Hers were rancid, smelling of the stomach turning gangrene that they had become. They throbbed with heat and pain, bringing tears to her eyes, but each of those wounds reminded her of her mistakes, the people who she had let too close to her. They were her daily reminder, and she would never let them close and heal. There was no healing. There was only pain.
A few of the wounds were caused by her. Her fingers moved over the soft skin of the inside of her wrist, tracing over the ladder like scars. Her one, pathetic attempt to take her life, to take herself out of this world. To make it end. It was just another way that she gave into the anger and the rage. She had been angry and she had raged and that was when she had picked up that shiny piece of metal and slashed it across her wrists.
The release of the pain made her feel good. She giggled, she remembered that. She giggled and she smiled. The last time she had laughed and smiled, in fact. The first cut felt so good that she went for the second cut, and then the third, and the fourth. Moved the metal from one hand to the other. Slashed at the skin on the other side. One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four cuts, five cuts. She had left it uneven, just how she was uneven. So many mistakes she had made with that action.
Shouldn't have been so loud. Should have had something to drink, to make the blood thinner. Should have plunged her wrists into warm water, in order to keep the cuts open. Should have cut in the other direction.
Remember, kids. Up the river, not across.
It didn't matter. They found her. THEY. The same ones that laughed and that said those bad things and grinned at her so that she felt it cut her inside. So many cuts on her, both visible and invisible. But it was the ones inside that hurt the most, wasn't it? Those were the real wounds, the ones that she had learned from.
It was so much better to be cold, to shut herself off from the pretty and the happy. So much better to give into the blackness, into the hurt, into the anger. She rocked back and forth with those thoughts, her eyes remaining firmly ahead on the white wall. How much better would it make her feel to see her blood, their blood, anyone's blood, thrown across it in some sort of abstract art. To see the brightness, the color, the wetness. Oh, God, it would make her feel so much better. It would be her release. She wanted a release. Needed a release, and the only release that she could think of would come in the form of her own blood.
What would they think if she sat there and gnashed with her own teeth at the skin of her wrists. She knew it was possible, had read about it. To eat her way to her own release. How wonderful, she thought. Her nails were long enough to pull at the flesh once she had a big enough hole, to tear and rip and make that hole that she so desperately wanted to make. It would be so easily, so long as she wasn't interupted.
The idea grew in her mind, and she couldn't help but giggle again. She had found her way out of this hell that they had put her in. She had found her release, and her laughter bounced off the walls and became louder and louder as her idea appealed to her more. Her head snapped around suddenly, hard enough to cause three sharp cracking sounds from her neck, as she looked towards the door. Once again, she had made the same mistake. Why hadn't she learned from that particular wound, she screamed to herself. They would hear and they would come running and they would stop her.
Immediately, she raised her wrist to her mouth and began to gnaw.