Choni One Shots

Loneliness

Have a random one shot I wrote in about thirty minutes while listening to slam poetry, feeling emotional and inspired.

TW for self harm and mentions of  suicide

"Loneliness" - noun - sadness because one has no friends or company.

Cheryl didn't know what she wanted, other than to not be alive. All she knew was that she was a college drop out, from a single parent home. She was an only child; the one no one wanted. The mistake. She was the woman no one wanted to be with. Her ex girlfriend of two years broke up with her because they were "oil and water" and because the other woman didn't want commitment. That was over a year ago. Loneliness. 

Two fucking years. Wasted. Twenty years of her life. Fucking wasted. No one believed in her, even when she needed it the most. She constantly felt alone, and that's what killed her.  Loneliness. 

It wasn't the pills she took as she tried to overdose. It wasn't the gun she bought at a pawn shop that she held in her shaking hand. It wasn't the razorblade she held to her skin so many times, leaving scars on her alabaster skin. No, it wasn't any of those things. Loneliness. 

It always came back to loneliness. Friends never wanting to hang out. Never actually having friends because she was the 'freak with red hair'. Even her friends in high school who saved her from a suicide attempt on the ice of a frozen river weren't really her friends. They never were. They were there long enough to make sure she was alive and breathing, before she went back to being unnoticed. Loneliness. 

If it wasn't for her fiery red hair, her killer body and those long legs that caught the eyes of everyone, she would have gone unnoticed. She did go unnoticed. They only saw what they wanted to see. They only saw what was on the outside. They didn't see that she was hurting. They didn't see that she was lonely. They didn't see the sadness. Loneliness. 

Cheryl wanted to be a hero. She wanted to help people. She wanted to help as many people as she could, in any way she could. She was majoring in art therapy before she had gotten academic dismissal. Twice. The teachers didn't see her struggling. The students didn't see her struggling. Loneliness. 

She had always been forgotten. Left behind by everyone she knew. Whenever she spoke, people spoke over her. Her father, Clifford, who was in prison, left her when she was three. Her step dad Bruce, left her when he died when she was fifteen. Loneliness.

When Cheryl was fourteen her dad was released from prison, much to her dismay. She didn't know the man. They saw each other maybe once a year, at most. They didn't have a relationship, other than letters and the occasional phone call asking to accept the charges. Clifford was not a good man and Cheryl knew this. She knew what he did to her cousin and why he spent eleven years in prison. Why she couldn't see him without her guardian present. She didn't want a relationship with him, but she tried. And he left. Again. Loneliness. 

It wasn't the eating disorder that killed Cheryl. As hard as she tried. It wasn't cutting a ribbon to constantly wear around her waist, under her shirt to make sure it never tightened. It needed to stay loose. Loneliness.

It wasn't the one vehicle car accident that killed Cheryl. The constant want to just veer into that large oak tree on the corner of 4th and Elm. It wasn't hitting her head on the steering wheel and getting stitches, or the cut on her chest from the seatbelt. She was too scared to not buckle the seatbelt. Loneliness. 

It wasn't her homophobic college dorm roommate that killed her. The constant remarks of how she was a sinner and how she was going to Hell. She never had the heart or energy to tell her roommate that she was already there. She had lived there her entire life. Loneliness. 

Cheryl needed to feel grounded. At all times. The only way that made sense to her; the only thing that seemed to help, was to take a razor blade to her skin. One small mark every day. Sometimes three, on especially bad days. Her shoulders are covered in scars; it hurts less there. Her thighs are more heavily covered, for when she felt true pain; for when she wanted to feel true pain. Loneliness. 

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It was jumping off of that bridge that finally killed Cheryl. She didn't deserve anyone. She didn't deserve to breathe. The twenty-two year old was tired. She was tired of barely surviving. Of fighting to survive herself. She was terrified of herself. Terrified of being alive. This was it. This was her last breath. She was finally putting an end to the loneliness. 

Until she wasn't. 

Until a stranger hollered for her, begging for her to stop. Urging her down from that rail, with shaky hands, offering to talk to her. To help her. To beat the loneliness. 

It had been two hours since Cheryl was standing on the railing of that bridge, standing over the river. Another river to not take her life. The stranger hadn't left her, and offered to stay as long as she needed to, beating the loneliness.

So Cheryl found herself in a diner that was open twenty-four hours a day, sitting in a booth with coffee and pancakes in front of her. She hadn't touched much of the food, but she was thankful for the woman sitting across from her, beating the loneliness. 

She was thankful for the woman in the leather jacket, with the pink hair. The woman who saved her and hadn't left her. The woman named Toni Topaz. Maybe she could beat the loneliness after all. 

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I hope you guys enjoyed this and that it wasn't too much, or anything. If you ever need someone to talk to, feel free to DM me ♥️

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