Do you really want to know how I got here? How the "pretty little perfect girl" turned into the monster she is now? Do you want to know the things that keep me awake at night? The things that are killing me inside? The pain?
Fine.
I'm fine.
It's all fine.
It'll always be just fine.
Everything will just be fine.
Because I'm fine, just fine, and I don't need anyone. I'm strong... For myself. And no one else. And why am I holding on? Because, it's that guilt. The guilt of leaving people who never even cared about me. Crazy, but I care more about them then they ever will about me.
I'll tell you something. Something that hopefully you'll remember. Maybe you'll remember it was me who told you, me, Amy.
Amy, the same sixteen-year-old girl who probably will be dead by the time you do.
Happiness is a drug. Only a drug. Just a drug. You intoxicate it to make everything better, but once it wears off, you go back to the person you were.
The same old person that can never keep their pillowcases free of tear stains.
The one who wakes up, crying, as she wished she would have never woken up in the first place.
Who wishes that while she sleeps that someone, something could kill her painlessly so she would never ever ever wake-up again to a life she deems as hell.
The same old person who draws with silver to make red. Magic. Pure magic. The silver blade always makes red. It doesn't make silver.
That exact person who lies awake at night, tired as hell but can never sleep.
The girl who tries to make the pain disappear but fails. Every time. Every single freaking time.
The one blamed for her father's habits and her mother's death. It wasn't her fault. But sometimes things can influence other things, when it gets too much.
The one who couldn't stop the incoming flow of constant hate. From everyone. Because they don't understand. They really don't understand. And they never will, either.
Fat.
Ugly.
Worthless.
Stupid.
She's me.
The girl I see in the mirror is the one with the hidden scars where no one can see.
And the worst thing of all is she knows no one cares.
Not even herself.
YOU ARE READING
melancholia ✔︎
Short Storyall i need is a reason to live. a reason to keep living in this hell you call life. because melancholia is just too hard to control all alone.
