Her eyes were nearly as gray as her downtrodden soul. Emptiness filled her as she walked alone down the crowded pathway. With each step there was a ringing in her ears, reminding her that she was falling apart- as if she didn’t already know. Every muscle, every bone, and every fiber of her being cried out in protest with aches and pains. As she got into her car and drove home, numbness filtered through her mind. Her fingers fumbled with the key at the door as she mindlessly locked herself in her room out of habit. Her bed greeted her like an old friend, offering her the protection of an emotional altar. Shutting off the light she lays motionlessly, permitting her feelings to seep through until she is interrupted by the piercing cry of her family calling her for dinner. She slowly gets up and decides which mask to put on for the occasion. Bearing a smile with a grimace of pain, she presented herself like the eccedentesiast she was. Midway through the meal, like clockwork, she loses her once ravenous appetite completely and begins to feel nauseous.
Later on, a trip to the bathroom will leave her in the most cliche situation as if in a movie. The sad song pulsing through her headphones, the water running to distract anyone outside from any noises, clutching the hard floor for support, tears rolling down the pale cheeks, and the slice of a blade, cold as ice, releasing her favorite color to flow out of her skin. With a smack to the head and the popping of a couple pills, she drags herself back to her comforting solitary confinement. Mind-gripping anxiety. Restlessness. Shortness of breath. Panic. Don’t panic, don’t cry. Don’t die. It’s all okay, we have your back, don’t feel sad, we’d all miss you if you were gone, just keep going, you’re almost there, you’re so strong. Strong. Ironically, helplessly, hopelessly, and paradoxically strong. Strong enough to hate herself. Strong enough to hurt herself. Never strong enough to fulfill her sick desire to end herself. Her mind paces and her heart races. Everything feels wrong. She wants to be alone yet she never wanted anything more than to feel love from others. She finally cries herself to sleep around 2 after accepting the fact her work would not get done and sleep would take the pain away.
Yet that is a wise tale; sleep doesn’t protect you from anything. She often wakes up coated in a cold sweat, crying from nightmares and acute cases of mania. The cycle continues and shows no signs of stopping. People drop in along the way, but end up hurting her more and getting hurt themselves. She was living one of those nightmares that you could never even dream about. She was dead inside, but nobody would ever know. She found beauty in death that nobody would ever appreciate. Aesthetically pleasing darkness to appease the pain for a while. “You just get emotional at night. Happiness is sure to come in the morning…right?”