Author : Silverfang
Summary : A drabblet. Depressing qualities as usual. Therapy time. Written a week ago yesterday.
~End~
And she sits at the computer again. For the last few nights, it's been the same routine. Tonight is no different. Today was a little more violent than other days, and she rubs at her face where her mother hit her this morning. She laughs suddenly as she types, but there's no mirth in the short bark. Her eyes have been burning with what feels like tears since late this afternoon, but if they are, she won't let them fall. This is her therapy. This is her life...but she calls it death.
She'd like it all to end.
It's almost funny, because the people who know her the best don't know her at all. She's so sick of it all; of life, of death, of friends, and of family. She knows she'll regret typing her stories later, but they're the only thing that keeps her from taking a blade to her skin. She wonders, right now, if she could do it. She's pretty sure that she could, but not that way. Maybe a car...
Her father used to work for a towing company. She recalls a story he told her of a young man who'd had the world: a wife, a kid, a house, a car, a well-paying job...until she cheated on him. Life went to hell. He ended it by driving his car at over sixty miles per hour into the rock face of a cliff, seatbelt wrapped around his neck. She once visited him, gingerly touched the scorch mark, and wished him peace.
She wonders if anyone would do that for her.
It's sad.
She smiles at the pictures of the "goths" and "emo" kids, because she wishes she could dress like them, but the first time she did, she'd be in an outpatient program again; maybe have another six counselors...
And that's another thing. Recently, she's had such an urge to get a therapist, but if she asks her mother, that will just prove her right about everything...and, although she'll never own up to it, her mother is to blame. She first brought up that her daughter was suicidal, homicidal, and the like, and the sponge that was her daughter slowly soaked it up. If not for that, she might still be free.
She won't take medication. She can't say it enough, and she knows that if she gets a therapist, it'll be Zoloft heaven, or anything stronger that they think won't kill her before she does.
She thinks of the boy who haunts her dreams, and the burning in her eyes gets worse. She wants the "just friends" facade to die; die forever and burn in hell. She'd like to hit something or scream, but it's late out. A glance at the clock shows it's around two A.M., and the bastards she has for neighbors blame her that her mother screams at her every morning and night, and call the landlord to complain about her when she falls down the stairs. She doubts that they'll be sympathetic.
She wants to save her stories, but she knows that her mother will read them; print them out and show them to a judge, or something just as wicked. And her stories are so very cold, and so warm at the same time. And she thinks again of that boy; of the sadness she can just barely see in his eyes, and it makes the burning sink deeper, back into her optic nerves and into her brain. A cold blanket begins to settle over her heart.
In an inane way, she realizes that she's hungry. Hungry. Hungry for what, exactly, is the problem. She wants close friends, but it's like having a blanket on a cold day; she can never get close enough. People think she's a freak, and she's just fine with what they think, but it bothers her that she's not something more...
Suicide. That's what she types into an avatar search engine. And she wonders how people can do that to themselves; she bleeds for them. She knows that some of her friends may die, and there's little that she can do about it, though she fears it so much. And she's a hypocrite, because while she'd never, ever allow her friends to do that to themselves, she's thought of it before. And it's sad again, because she knows that, no matter what they think, someone loves them. If no one else on the entire planet, she loves them. She wonders if anyone loves her, and knows somewhere in her head and in her heart that someone does, but it's so hard to know that for sure...so hard...especially when the one person she wishes would love her doesn't even seem to care.
And she knows that's a dellusion, as most of her life is, because he does, in whatever small way, but that only makes it worse, and she finally lets a tear fall. Only one.
She catches the warm drop on her finger and smiles bitterly, wondering what he would do if he saw her cry. She worries that he'll read her stories, but knows somewhere deep inside that he won't, because no one believes them. No one imagines what she could be...She'd love to show him how beautiful she could be; how loved she could make him feel.
The question of love rises in her mind again, and she crushes it as a child would crush a bug, because she can't answer it, and she doesn't want to.
She wishes for a moment that someone knew her from childhood. She always wishes that there was someone who could remember and tell her how she used to be, because there's nothing more that she wants than to be that person again, so innocent and lighthearted. She wants to say that she'd give anything, but that's not true. She's come to love this growing darkness, so much so that she has no idea of where she'd be without it. She wants to be everything and nothing, and it's slowly beginning to tear her apart.
She types slower now, losing herself in the beauty of a life that will never be hers. She makes fictional hands come together; fictional hearts entertwine. It's so easy to create love...so easy...
Is it so wrong? She stops and opens a new window to glance at the picture of her dream. Is it so very wrong...
She closes her eyes to put an abrupt end to the tears streaming down her face and takes control over her mind again. She's learned to control things so well now, and he's the only thing that can drive her totally beyond that. She smiles because she knows how happy he'll be even as she's dying alone in her mind.
It's a life she'll never have. Never. Even if it's only a mental message, sometimes mental messages are stronger than even a person's heart.
She reaches out slowly and types out the word "E-N-D."
END.
