Impossible

Øne

I'd say I was doing fairly well as I am. Well if it weren't for my mental state. For the way I'm treated I keep a, for the most part, level head. Though cutting my skin as if it were paper is on the more, not so level headed side. Actually a lot of things were on that side. I supposed that was my life. I mean you couldn't really expect a depressed, anorexic, anxiety filled girl to be sane, or level headed for that matter. My point is, I'm insane as one can be. I also hate fake people, yet I was one of them. That explains why I hate myself so much. You see, I pretend to be what I'm not. For one, I'm not pretty. Secondly, I'm not happy. We all have our flaws, sure. But let's face it, I had more then most.

"Dylan? Dylan!" My companion, and the only person I trusted called from beside me as he snapped his fingers in my face.

"What is it Dallon?" I asked in my careless monotone voice. The one that was always laced with hurt and pain that no one seemed to realize.

"We're here." He said as he got out of his pickup. We were having yet another one of our amazing sleep overs. To be honest sleep overs with him were the only ones I ever had. Because quite frankly, I had practically no social life.

"Good, I hate car rides." I scoffed and got out. Grabbing my small bag of things and carrying it inside. You see, I wasn't high maintenance either. I had no reason to be. Nobody payed attention anyways so why waste money on makeup and super expensive clothes when nobody will even look at them? I was fine the way I was, despite the bullying I was well, comfortable not bearing the weight of the twenty pounds of makeup that most girls wore.

"Always the serious one aren't ya?" Dallon playfully asked and I just nodded my head. I had every reason to be serious and he knew it. Though it was a sarcastic comment I still thought about it like I do with everything. "Can I ask something?" He asked me and I rolled my eyes.

"You just did baka." I retorted sarcastically. Sarcastic and ruthless, ah. That was my personality, well when I wasn't serious, or depressed, or paranoid. But overall sarcastic and ruthless is what I was most of the time in front of other people.

"No, I mean an actual question Dylan." He replied. I nodded my head as if to say sure, I hated using words if it wasn't necessary. Though they wee great I preferred not to waste my energy speaking to people who I might never see again, when it could be used to work out. "You're a girl, you're named Dylan. Which is a guys name, why exactly?" He asked. See we'd known each other since I started high school. We were now juniors. Yet he still didn't know why, when complete strangers did.

"I was supposed to be a boy long story short. I kinda lived to act like one." I answered. I got the question often and I didn't mind it anymore. I mean, I wasn't mistreated by my parents. They still loved me and we functioned like a normal family, because we pretty much are one.

"Oh." Was all he said before unlocking the door to his apartment and walking inside, me following close behind.

"Hey, Dallon. You know what I was thinking about on the way over here?" I asked as I sat on his bed and crossed my feet then grabbed my ankles. Him then sitting across from me in the same position, just not holding on to his ankles.

"What were you thinking about?" He asked curiously, in a mocking tone. I just rolled my eyes at his mocking.

"You know, if people were guns and words were their bullets I'd be dead. But instead I'm going insane." I replied, it had been on my mind for a while. I just never got the chance to say it aloud. Much less to anyone else. Though Dallon was the only 'anyone else' I really had.

"Good thought, but why and how did you come up with that?" He asked out of curiosity. I just shrugged, I mean I didn't really know why. I mean the bullying has been getting worse but that just causes me to cut and cry. Not have deep thoughts like that.

"I don't really know, I mean the bullying has been getting worse. But I doubt that's why." I answered. He just looked at me and shrugged. I let loose and just layed down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I could feel my ribcage sticking out from my stomach. I put my hands behind my head, wrists facing up. You could see the old scars from when I used to cut there. I started cutting some here else when I realized cutting there was too noticeable.

Dallon also layed down, he then turned off the lamp light and rested his head on the pillow. I flipped over to face him. "So you don't hide your scars anymore?" He asked looking to my wrists.

"Not from you." I replied coldly. I hated talking about my scars. The neat little lines of recovered skin that I split open. I had used things from knives to razors. By knives I mean pocket knives, throwing knives, even butcher knives. When I needed to cut I did. I mean I even had a broken pencil sharpener that I used at school. I was basically a masochist. No remove basically from that sentence. I am a masochist. Seeing little crimson droplets go down my wrists and legs was somehow satisfying. Dragging a blade across my thin, sensitive skin was dangerous, yes. But it made me feel more free and liberated for whatever reason. It took the emotional pain away and focused it on something more physical. It drained the emotional pain, for me anyways. I looked at my scarred wrists one more time before going half lidded. Then eventually falling asleep and going into a land far from reality where I was actually okay. One I wished I could live in forever.