This is a song for a scribbled-down name
And my love keeps writing again and again
This is a song for a scribbled-down name
And my love keeps writing again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again
I dance with myself, I drunk myself down
Found people to love, left people to drown
I'm not scared to jump, I'm not scared to fall
If there was nowhere to land I wouldn't be scared at all
At all
At all
Fall
Fall
Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release
Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief
Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace
It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief
+
The sidewalk outside of Murphy's was a comfortable one. Maybe it wasn't the sidewalk itself, but its atmosphere, its scenery, everything except the sidewalk. It was a place to lose yourself in others and one where they didn't care. You could sit for hours at a time without getting a second look; if you didn't bother anyone, they didn't bother you. So yes, the sidewalk outside Murphy's was a comfortable one indeed.
Or at least it was, until they found out that it was mine.
I don't know if they were deadset on making me feel miserable, or even more isolated, or trying to take away something they knew was mine. Either way they were deadset on something, and it had to do with me.
They started to sit there after school, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, and if they saw me watching, which was very rare, they quieted down and stared. So I began to find other places, or at least I tried. It seemed that everywhere was taken by everyone. They all had somewhere, and those somewheres were closed off to me.
Who would want to share a bench or shrub with Elle Grey anyway? She only had five different letters in her name, it was dull and so was she; her hair brown and eyes brown. She was quiet as a rock and stand-offish, not someone who you'd talk to in your free time, she wasn't worth any of those minutes. Not a single one.
Sooner than later, I started to realize it, and then it started to get to me. I didn't plan for any of it to happen, nobody ever does. But event after event, only one outcome was clear, and only one was possible. To escape, the only way one could.
It started with the sidewalk, and continued to direct contact. They'd jeer at me, make fun of the things I loved, the clothes I wore, the food I ate. They'd call me fat, hairy, slut, whore, and pretty soon it was a game of who could mock and tease Elle Grey the most. Who could drive her to tears and make her run away. Who could break her.
And then came Jasper.
He started to talk to me, befriend me, and I thought he understood me. I didn't realize at the time, how unusual and impossible it was for him, a popular, to be talking to me, a reject. I didn't realize it until our first date, where he "accidentally" spilled his cherry slushy on my white blouse, and laughed at everything I said. It wasn't until he ditched me in the middle of the date, and I watched him high-five one of his football team buddy's. Everything was a set-up, a ruse, it was all just part of the game, all just another ploy.
And then came Sheila.
Her goal was the same as Jasper's, minus the romanticizing, and I didn't see it until after she had succeeded. I started to hate myself, they were getting what they wanted. How could someone be so stupid and so god damn blind, and time after time, they still fell for the same tricks and still got hurt.
And then it got worse, it was no longer people attacking me, they were targeting my home, my family.
Calls started to be made to the home line, and messages left, with deep voices saying "what a slut your daughter Elle is" and laughter pouring in through the background. I deleted them as soon as I could and not once did I let them succeed with my parents hearing. But they did succeed.
I heard them.
It broke me down even further when I didn't think it was possible. It broke me down without me even knowing it. It broke me down until I was ground up into an atom, and I remained indivisible.
I heard them.
And by that point reality began to feel less like reality and more like confusion. I started to eat less, skipping meals, I thought it was normal, but at the same time I didn't. First it was breakfast, then lunch, and finally dinner. I ate less and less, and I started to care about how fat I was. My thighs jiggled and my stomach hung over the waistband of my jeans, and my clothes started to become baggier but I looked increasingly larger. And it didn't make sense, it didn't add up. I started to question the very fabric of my reality.
I heard of girls being anorexic, and that their mind started to play tricks on them. In the mirror they were large, but to everyone else they were bones. Was that me? Was my mind tricking me? Was it more than my own skin?
I have these shirts. All these shirts, different colors, different sizes, from races that I had run the previous years. I wore them all the time and people made fun of them, of course, but they were a part of me. And more and more, when I put them on and looked in the mirror, the girl in the reflection was less of me and more of someone else. I couldn't explain it, nor do I dare try, but it wasn't me. Maybe some long lost twin, or an alternate being, but it wasn't me. And day after day, I was losing myself.
And it wasn't just the teasing, or the jeering, or the cruel taunts, it was me. I was tearing myself down, I was confused, and I was lost. I was lost, and I didn't know how to find myself back. I didn't know if it was possible or if I even wanted it anymore. I didn't know what the hell was real and I wasn't sure if I was even still existent. I didn't know anything anymore, not even myself.
Elle Grey dissolved, not only by the means of her peers, but by the means of herself.
Elle Grey killed herself. And it wasn't Sheila Wilkens who handed her those pills, or Jasper Coven who purchased them. It was her.
She led to her own demise, her mind questioned the very existence of herself, her hands shook in utter nervousness and disorientation.
Elle Grey died all by herself. In both ways is this true.
