TS Albums One-Shots

"I'm sorry."

Clammy hands grip the bathroom counter top. Blood runs down her arms as she stares herself in the mirror.

She's been pondering the question for a while now, possibly a week, likely more. The pros, and the cons. What could happen if she went through with it? What if she didn't?

Thoughts swirled through her mind, a thunderstorm of grief, anger. Her head was a constant calamity of movement, what would it take for calm? The obvious answer was what dictated said question.

If she did go ahead with this attempt, all would be bliss. She knew it. The storm inside her could cease, and she could just drift. Drift for all of eternity. It was a tempting promise, a reliable promise.

Her love life added to the other end of the debate. To go through with this, and succeed, could mean the destruction of another person. She knew her love could learn to move on, though. Plus, the girl could be rid of her love being a constant burden.

A blood-stained razor sat innocently on the counter. It's once spotless blade was encrusted with ruby-red from months of use. She hadn't gotten around to purchasing another yet.

Honestly, she wasn't sure what was real anymore. Happiness? A mere joke. At least, it was for her. How could one even think to believe in such a ridiculous concept? Her therapist certainly tried, but you can't fill someone with hope when they have nowhere to hold it. This false hope would slip in through one ear, and never be registered.

Therapists were as bad as their tactics, she thought. People told to fill others with false promises and obtain a fancy title for it.

She stopped believing in hers long ago. She wasn't going to waste her time, her energy, listening to a woman fill her head with delusions.

Hope got you nowhere. Hope was a mere extension of delusion designed to keep people happy. Keep them optimistic and bright. Real life wasn't any of these. Real life, for her, was a constant feeling of weight on shoulders, grief, anxiety, pain, depression, pain, silence, pain, fakes, pain, pain, pain, pain.

All it would take was a simple action. She could only hope it would be quick, and if it wasn't, the majority could hold her in a blissful, blurry haze.

Yes, that was what she wanted. Blissful, blurry, nothingness.

A shaky hand caressed a stinging forearm, smudging the inky fluid along her pale skin. Most of it was dry by now, a little crusty and still stinging. She wanted to do it again, but what was the point. Her hands shook far too much to hold the razor tight enough. Besides, the morbidly stunning, custom canvas was a few brush-strokes away from being full. So many lines, so many reopened scars, new cuts, old cuts. It was rather marvellous.

No, she decided. There was no point in painting anymore now, her canvas was finished for now.

She felt an overwhelming urge to keel over and clutch her pounding head, feeling the need to scream. But no, she couldn't do that. Scream and the others would come, turn up with their panicked looks and fear, shock, sadness.

She had no time for that, Reputation would be home soon.

She was, in fact running out of time. Her gaze turned to the small, stark white bottle on the counter. The lid was flicked open, revealing perfect powdery pills. There were many in there, more than what she needed. She had been prepared for this day for weeks now.

She lifted the small pot, slender fingers wrapping around the plastic and holding it with a white-knuckle grip.

She paused. This would be the last time she saw herself, if all went well. It wasn't the most glamorous of deaths, she wouldn't go down hero, or live a long, prosperous life. No, not that.