a collection of short stories for my stupid mental health.

the villain of the story

TW: suicide, self harm

(fun fact i used this story for a homework assignment because it was to write a story about a broken promise)

my tale isn't the best, but not the worst. I will never claim to have the worst life because it simply just isn't true. I have lead a lonely life but not the worst i could have possibly lead. childhood was hard, i nearly didn't make it past that but i'm glad that i did. If this was written by anyone else, the winner for example, you would not get the insight of my tale, nor would you get my side. i would die and no one would know my story.

i sit at the top of a roof of a dilapidated, old building. i don't know how i found myself there at this late hour but i did and i like it. I have a love hate relationship with the night. i love nighttime because your alone. no one around to judge, no need to pretend your something you're not. just you, the moon and your thoughts. Alone. But that's also the problem isn't it? You're alone with a restless mind that's often against you, creating unnecessary scenarios, overthinking what you said, what you did, what you didn't say, what you didn't do. no one to bother you but no one to comfort you either.

And at that moment you realize how alone you are.

And here you are, wondering if others are alone too, with a broken mind and a broken heart, hoping  for days where they'll finally be able to sleep in peace. There's people all over the world that are fighting silent battles as well. On their own but yet we're somehow connected. Maybe your not alone after all. Even as the villain of someone else's tale i find myself just like any other person out there. Having struggles is a normal human thing but when i am seen to have issues it is not important or not a reason to do what i do. For the Hero of this tale however no matter what they do, they are perfect for society and automatically accepted. Everyone calls them the symbol of peace but what peace is there really. People are still dying and people are still fighting for someone higher up than themselves.

I used to look up to them, i really did but i cant bring myself to do that anymore. never again will i see the person i loved so much in my early years as that person was sacrificed for fame and wealth. They had promised me they would never forget what we had, and promised to build the future with me but as soon as the opportunity of fame came along i was no longer in the picture. just another promise that could never be kept. in a way the person i was when young is also dead, but at least that person would be proud once the story of mine was told. That child will at first hate who I've, or I guess we have become  but it was different back then. There was non of this lack of love for them to have to battle everyday for years, younger me was too stupid to see that there was no love there,nor was there a promise, not for me at least, they were all just empty words. I was left to battle an invisible force that should have just been given. That force was unconditional love. Not from my friends, or teachers, or the random people who would stalk my social media waiting for that next post, it was my parents. That's what left me heartbroken before I even knew what it meant. It wasn't just broken down the middle but more like smashed into millions of pieces.

It is the kind of wound that will kill you but no one really sees, or cares to see. With a broken heart you are well and truly alone. It's something that can't be helped, it could be prevented but you only see that when it's too late. It's a shame really that there isn't anything that could help this feeling but that's life. It beats you down until you can't stand anymore. The overwhelming pressure crushes you under its weight. It can be impossible to come out of depending on how deep it had already gone before this point. It could leave you craving some form of love to temporarily stick the pieces back together or it could leave you for dead, the only kind of love you feel could turn to the edge of a knife. The canvas you used to love painting on changes form and you are suddenly drawing with silver but the results turning red, and as the painting ages it slowly turns white or fades entirely almost as if it was never there to begin with, but you know it was.