Blank Slate of Insanity

Sanity is No Longer an Option.

She glowers at the blank piece of white copy paper staring back at her. She couldn't do it. She had tried so many
times, so many failed attempts gone to waste. She had rephrased so many times, in fear of saying the wrong thing. "Just do it, you've done worse." She mutters to herself as an earth- shattering pain comes rushing through her head. She silently moans in anguish before dragging her quivering limbs to kitchen. She opens the medicine cabinet filled with unused and unnecessary drugs and hastily gabs the first one her eyes catch.
She uncapped the cube shaped bottle and hurriedly swallowed three pills dry. She drops the bottle on the counter and leaves the large, but all to lonely room. She returns to the old mahogany wood desk and seats herself in the worn black leather chair. As she sits, she again finds herself looking at the blank, but oddly transfixing paper. There was nothing particularly special about the paper, but to her it was like a single gleaming diamond in a sea of dark coal. It was so empty, filled with nothing, while it was fresh and clean of anything that could taint its purity. Both good and bad at the same time, but only one sided. A war of polarity waging between both sides on the invisible carvings of the paper, and something strange came to mind.
It somehow reminded her of what she was like before. She was just like the paper- bright, pure, and everything else good were words used to describe her personality. Her smile was constantly competing against the sun, and was crowned undefeated victor. If describing what she is now to her past self, she would have laughed it off and said some "life-changing" quotes about how we need to live life to the fullest and how we don't have time to be depressed. Maybe if she had known the truth, she wouldn't have been so naïve to think that life was all happiness and sunshine. No, it was anger, pain, sadness, depression, and just about everything else that made you cry the useless tears that streamed down your face at 12 AM. She always thought that fights never happened, that we were all neutral and we would live in peace and harmony forever ever after.
What she didn't realize was that when she had to battle in war, that she was going to facing her fears, and her toughest demons all by herself without anyone to catch her when she fell. She never realized that you either won or died trying. When she realized that, everything fell apart. She was no longer the former light, but only a mere shriveled shell of what she used to be. She was the dried, brown weed that lay dead hunched over on your bright green grass. Dejected, dead, useless and undesirable. She like being alone though, it brought some form of twisted comfort.
She'd much rather be drowning in solitude, then wasting 30 minutes that she could never get back of whiny pre-teens complaining about their problems and home issues. She could relate to almost every kid in the room, but refused to explain her issues any further than a " We don't talk to each other very much." Response. Before it got to this point she tried to tell them. Eventually she gave up, not bothering to beg and plead only to be thrown to side like something as insignificant as a cat scratch. Shaking the heart wrenching thoughts away, she turned in her chair, faced forward, and straightened her curved back as much as possible. She then turned her full attention on the fine tip black ink pen to the right of her. With a trembling hand, she used her bony fingers to latch on to the pen with an unsteady grip.
Every couple of minutes or so, she would tilt her shaky hand slowly, only to lurch it back in fear of saying something she could not take back. She takes in a deep breath and writes down the first thing she can think of. Why? She stops for a second and asks herself the same question. "Why did I hit her?" or "Why didn't they believe me when I told them I needed help?" Then suddenly these questions and many others just like it, come speeding in through her mind at rapid fire. She screams in pure agony and hunches over, while yelling "Make it stop!" She somehow, falls off the chair and into the corner of the room with arms wrapped tightly against the folded knees that were being hugged to her chest.
This was her world now. Struggling to keep the weak grip on the little bit of sanity she had left was slipping through her fingers tips and all she could do was watch, as it slowly faded. When she was little girl her grandmother would always tell her, "Bridge," she'd say, "Darling, in the end you have to save yourself, because everyone else is busy saving themselves." If only she had listened to the words that could have saved her. But it was too late. Maybe if she had stated those words a little sooner, she may not have turned out the way she did. And all they did was give her false sense of hope and a real sense of hopelessness.
She was like this for several reasons. He was one of them. It's totally cliché. He loves her and then dumps her heart on to the sidewalk as if a bag of trash. But this was different. He really did love her and probably cherished her with all he had. He showered her with gifts and presents and constantly said I love you to her. Not because he was trying to swoon her, or play her, but because he genuinely cared. But then he made a fatal mistake. He left. Correction, he left for some cold medicine. But that what all it took. One decision and she was on her knees, praying to whatever was up there in the sky to take her away from this. This pain, torture, anguish, and this emotion that she suddenly couldn't put a name on that was clouding her mind from making a single coherent thought and god, did it crush her to no end.