Blunt

A Signal of The Heart

".....You fell, down from heaven, heaven..."

A layer of blurry substance, the indistinct quality of vision, a sorrowful sight covered her head. Dull hay like strands, a lusterless color of yellow, specks of dirt and oil decorated them, they hung dead around her zitless face, face that is dabbed with lumps of fats.

She rolled around, legs and arms sprawled across the wrinkled sheet, small twitches on the tips of her fingers. Clear tears seeping out, falling down; the dull pain subsided, came back, ached, subsided. With each move, jolts of an army of needles attacked her limbs, and she would gasp; small, choking sounds escaping the open gap between her parted lips. Grief strickened, her whole being ached. She was in pain, and in pain of what, she couldn't pinpoint exactly.

The air conditioner hummed a low, long sound, pitying on her. She wanted to laugh, and her voice came out as a croak, sad and pitiful like she is. The red scratches rippled, a wave of thousands whales toppled her last of defense. Give up, give up, give up all there is, even a lifeless matter pitied her, and possibly laughed behind her. The twitches went on stronger, a voice urged her to scream. To let out and let go all there was left; she couldn't bring herself to lift the glinting metal, a coward, in her head deprecated, she absolutely believes she was a coward guised in and posed as a useless lump of unworthiness, rotten inside and decaying outside.

She held back, her voice stuck inside her messed up head as she screamed in silence. Silence, darkness wrapped around her without mercy. Adjusting her eyes, she slowly rose, blindly searching for the edge of the bed.

Her feet shuffled down, sweeping against the cold floor. It was a dead night with everyone and everything else deep in sleep. They were dreaming, and she was grieving. And to be more pitiful, she was grieving over herself.

The bathroom door wasn't locked, and she softly nudged it open. A small 'click' echoed in the small room as she pressed the lamp switch. She was instantly faced with her own reflection on the mirror, one she didn't wish to see, one she didn't need to see.

And her eyes played tricks on her; tricks she believed so well, they became true in her mind, her universe. She bloated; twice, three times bigger than what she actually is. She became filled with filth and chemicals she didn't want to see her body stuffed with; and a sick feeling exploded in her head, giving her unreasonable reasons to pour out all she had left, it made her want to gouge, want to cork out and shed the layers of life in her, to mince and flush down.

She ran to the closet, abruptly opened the cover and dipped down her head, deeper than she had intended; she wanted it all to go away, to disappear in a flash. Maybe with her face, with her whole being.

She collapsed down when her system flushed out the remnants of her guilt, too tired to even cry. Bones stuck out from her thin wrist on which harsh marks had poluted and ran over. She rasped, trying to stand, trying to remember that she still had a tomorrow.

Two big plaster sealed her marks from being visible, and a bandana was tied on it to prevent any suspicion. She didn't need insensitive teenagers to pry and poke their nose where they don't belong. She had enough already.

Others screamed, and laughed, and shared jokes; she needed quietness, one which is impossible to obtain in such place. She used to be stuck up, with a straight sense of moral conduct, a transparent kind of person, one which doesn't hesitate to be frank. Her rashness led to demise, and she dwells in it; in sorrow, pitied by herself.

The spots under her band-aids itched.

A storm came crashing onto her desk, in the form of lustrous wave of black hair, down to the shaped waist, with an outlined brilliant green eyes. Her nose sloped nicely, small and thin, and connected to her red lips, moving ever so slowly.

"You dropped this."

Her slender fingers squeezed on her hand, and she gasped. Such creature shouldn't be interacting with her. She was no nectar which attracts butterflies.

A crumpled paper landed on her desk, and she slowly opened it. A small drawing of a letter, and on top of it, Are you okay? Was written beautifully in perfect cursive. She glanced at the black haired beauty, who gave her a small smile, pointing at her bandana wrapped wrist.

Tears threatened to fall down. She wanted to scream again, in her hoarse pained wail, succumbing into the pain. Her stomach churned, and twisted, and she felt the filth coming out of her all over again.

Shivering, she shook, trying to rock back and forth in her seat. "I tried." Agony laced her weak reply, nausea kidnapped her sanity. The black haired beauty wrapped her arms around her. She had been watching her, the small figure of a person for a long time, and it pained her how horrified she looked; she wanted to make it all alright, to make her alright. She was glad when she didn't push her arms and swatted them away; warmth enveloped her. She had watched over her for so long and dreamed of her for even longer.

"Don't give up. Let me be a reason to."