LJ Idol - Week 2 - Living Rent-Free In Your Head
TRIGGER WARNING - Mentions of self harm and suicide
The voices have been there as long as she can remember. They’re the wind through the leaves, across the tiles of the roof, sounding like the screams of children sometimes in the dark of the night.
Sometimes they whisper, dark things to her, you’re not good enough, you’ll never be good enough, might as well just die. And sometimes she listens, knees hugged to her chest, cheek on her knees, her hair a curtain in front of her face and listens to the voices inside her head.
Sometimes they’re quiet and she thinks that they’ve gone, a smile playing on her face and her mother tells her she’s so pretty when she smiles.
But they come back, louder and stronger and nastier.
They’re louder at night, practically screaming in her ear all the things that she thinks deep down inside. You’re fat, no one loves you, no one wants you, you’re a burden. But she still falls asleep sometimes, the voices almost lulling her to sleep, and then they’re worse the next day, like they hate to be ignored. Letting her know they’re still there.
It builds, they get louder, more constant, more vicious, just more and one heartbreak after another and they have more ammunition, more bullets to fly at her. They are quiet when she hurts herself, she finds that by accident, and she can almost hear the contented hum from them in her head, the voices quiet and, for once, happy.
So she does it again, blade solid in her hand, a dark crimson line of blood welling from her thigh, from her arm, from anywhere people can’t and won't see.
The voices lessen, and sometimes she swears she hears them laugh.
So she stops, and they start again. Even louder, a cacophony of abuse ringing in her ears, until one day she cuts deeper, and the right way.
Blood wells faster, a thick gush clouding in the bath water, turning it pink first, then dark red. And it hurts, God it hurts but the voices are quiet, and she smiles for the first time in a long time, the quiet in her head blissful, despite the pain in her wrists.
And before it goes from red to black she swears her hears Good girl whispered in her ear.
….
“It’s a gorgeous town house, in a great location. You’re kids can walk to school, and the school is great,” the Realtor opens the back patio doors and smiles at her.
She can feel herself living here, and she spins slowly, taking in the spaces for her orchids, on the south facing kitchen window. And the space for her aloe vera plant on the other side, natural light but not direct. She smiles at the Realtor and reaches out to shake her hand.
“Why is it so cheap? No one died did they?” She asks with a chuckle and the Realtors face falls.
“She was a troubled soul,” she says in answer and a flash of warning flares across the girls brain. But it’s the perfect place and she can’t afford anything else. She swallows the worry and signs on the dotted line.
….
It’s two weeks in when she starts to hear the voices, inside her own head, brushing her hair in her bedroom mirror and there’s a flicker in her peripheral vision.
You’re not good enough, you’ll never be good enough, might as well die.
The voices have been there as long as she can remember. They’re the wind through the leaves, across the tiles of the roof, sounding like the screams of children sometimes in the dark of the night.
Sometimes they whisper, dark things to her, you’re not good enough, you’ll never be good enough, might as well just die. And sometimes she listens, knees hugged to her chest, cheek on her knees, her hair a curtain in front of her face and listens to the voices inside her head.
Sometimes they’re quiet and she thinks that they’ve gone, a smile playing on her face and her mother tells her she’s so pretty when she smiles.
But they come back, louder and stronger and nastier.
They’re louder at night, practically screaming in her ear all the things that she thinks deep down inside. You’re fat, no one loves you, no one wants you, you’re a burden. But she still falls asleep sometimes, the voices almost lulling her to sleep, and then they’re worse the next day, like they hate to be ignored. Letting her know they’re still there.
It builds, they get louder, more constant, more vicious, just more and one heartbreak after another and they have more ammunition, more bullets to fly at her. They are quiet when she hurts herself, she finds that by accident, and she can almost hear the contented hum from them in her head, the voices quiet and, for once, happy.
So she does it again, blade solid in her hand, a dark crimson line of blood welling from her thigh, from her arm, from anywhere people can’t and won't see.
The voices lessen, and sometimes she swears she hears them laugh.
So she stops, and they start again. Even louder, a cacophony of abuse ringing in her ears, until one day she cuts deeper, and the right way.
Blood wells faster, a thick gush clouding in the bath water, turning it pink first, then dark red. And it hurts, God it hurts but the voices are quiet, and she smiles for the first time in a long time, the quiet in her head blissful, despite the pain in her wrists.
And before it goes from red to black she swears her hears Good girl whispered in her ear.
….
“It’s a gorgeous town house, in a great location. You’re kids can walk to school, and the school is great,” the Realtor opens the back patio doors and smiles at her.
She can feel herself living here, and she spins slowly, taking in the spaces for her orchids, on the south facing kitchen window. And the space for her aloe vera plant on the other side, natural light but not direct. She smiles at the Realtor and reaches out to shake her hand.
“Why is it so cheap? No one died did they?” She asks with a chuckle and the Realtors face falls.
“She was a troubled soul,” she says in answer and a flash of warning flares across the girls brain. But it’s the perfect place and she can’t afford anything else. She swallows the worry and signs on the dotted line.
….
It’s two weeks in when she starts to hear the voices, inside her own head, brushing her hair in her bedroom mirror and there’s a flicker in her peripheral vision.
You’re not good enough, you’ll never be good enough, might as well die.