nicki2228
It wasn't as if she was afraid of someone taking her luggage, oh no, she was afraid of the zipper. The zipper on the pocket of her bag with her razors had become loose while on the flight, and it was ready to slip. She needed to grab her bag before someone moved it aside or tried to help her with it. And just as she reached out to snatch it, someone pushed it out of their way. The zipper slid, her box fell, the metal hit the floor with a ping.
She stood there, finally at her destination, and stared down the tracks. She wondered when the train would come. She sat on the rail, keeping her spine straight, upright. There wasn't much going on, spare the highway below her. Maybe she should run to Burger King and grab a snack before death.
I watched as the girl stared me in the eyes and dragged the knife across her throat. She stood for a moment before wavering and then collapsed, eyes rolling back. I dove forward and caught her, moving the hair from her face gently and rocking her back and forth. Her crimson blood stained my white shirt, but I didn't care. I think I felt her soul separate from her body. /But to be honest,/ I think, pushing up her sleeve slightly to reveal the angry red lines there, /I'm pretty sure she died long ago./
The poster child for the Hospital, she was a cutter. She attempted suicide four times and pussied out for each one. She was anorexic with bulimic tendencies, and she felt guilty just for eating. Problem was, she just played along with their little game. The girl never, ever got better. And she never would.
Who said she wanted to?
The first thing I notice is her earring. She only has one in, but it dangles from her ear to her shoulder. A beautiful feather, pure white with a black spot up near the top, the only thing I can think about is her. White for her innocent facade, and the black for the demon she hides inside.
Another, more somber view:
She lay in a puddle of her own scarlet blood, pooling on the floor around her. He threw himself next to her, onto his knees, and ran his fingers gently over the thick, oozing slit from which her life's liquid seeped. A bit of the blood was pushed away and he saw how truly deep it was. He pushed the handle of the knife out of the girl's limp hand, which he grasped in his own.
A beautiful suicide, just because of one slipped word.
My boots weren't very high up on my calves, but I didn't care. I just danced forward and began to sing out "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..!" as I pitched my feet forward, slamming them into the puddle. Water splashed everywhere, especially up on me, but I didn't care. I just laughed.
Most relate heartache to broken relationships. I? I relate this to loneliness. Malice for the world and a wish for death brought on by one's own self. An ache slicing so deeply one can only distract himself with a razor to his skin. An ache that makes one scream "I can't take this anymore!" as he tumbles off the edge.
Sometimes a heartache is not only for lovestruck teenagers but for those who actually suffer.
She gasped.
The small beads of ruby blood seeped through the open wound, inflicted upon herself, her own shaking hand dragging the knife across her own pale skin. She marveled at her ability to do no more than wonder why she was doing this to herself, but she never displayed any difference, any more sadness than allowed by girls her age. Ever.
Because that was who she was.
The perfect term to describe the sunset at Lake Michigan in the summer. Ruby. All across the sky, fading the farther it gets from the sun... oh, it's glorious, magnificent. There is nothing else like it in the world.
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writing since 2012 · 23 entries · 19 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Nichole showed up.
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