She was like a deer in headlights; hit, ran over, and left for dead. The only difference was she kept breathing, and she got up, when she was destined to stay on the ground. She was quiet; way too quiet for own good. She wasn't one to pipe up during class, and she wasn't one to talk about herself. Everyone knew she was different; but they didn't know why, because she could be someone. She just chose not to be.
She was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. She used to wake up screaming in the middle of the night, her demons choking her, slowly killing her. And during that moment she'd fight. She'd draw her own blood, let it spill over, trying to get them out. She'd do it over and over again, until she was light-headed and the demons were no longer in her mind. She'd clean up her mess, carefully. She'd throw away her weapon, she wipe up her own blood with tissues, and tend to her messy wounds. But the demons would come back, and they'd talk to her. They would tell her that she wasn't worth anything, that all the happy thoughts she had were fake. They would tell her she was useless, that she was nothing, and she would never be anything. And slowly, after those many nights of hearing them, and crying herself to sleep; she believed them.
Her mother, when she found out, called her crazy. She knew she wasn't crazy. Her mom just didn't know; she had no clue what went on in her little girl's mind. But she wasn't her little girl anymore; she was a monster. When she looked into the mirror, she didn't see herself anymore. She had become a monster, she had become her demons.
"Sometimes I want to die." she said once, to her therapist.
"Are you feeling suicidal?" the therapist replied.
"Not actively," she responded, "but if something bad were to happen to me, I wouldn't necessarily be upset about it either."
The therapist had asked her to explain.
"I don't think I have the courage to actually go through with committing suicide, but if I were to be walking across the road and a car was coming straight for me, I'm not sure I would get out of the way." her voice was soft, quiet. But her words spoke truth.
She tried, she really tried, to get better. She had relapses, moments where she'd slide down the wall of her bathroom, her weapon in hand, blood dripping from her wrists as she cried. She hated herself, for doing this to herself. But she couldn't stop. This weapon, was the only thing that brought her relief. She felt better. So, she secretly kept doing it, but tried to act happy, as if she was better. Just for everyone else's sake.
Then, she met this boy.
This guy, she admired. He wasn't like most people; he was real. He was real with her. He had the most peculiar attitude towards thing; while she cared too much, he cared too little about things. He stuck with her, even when she told him about her 'problem'. He didn't run away. She tried to push him away, tried to distance herself; she knew he would run away. The demons, they told her. They told her not to trust him, they told her he thought she was crazy too. But, he stayed. He talked her out of using her weapon against herself in the middle of the night, he spoke words of truth while she cried, he helped her. He wanted her to get better; he was trying. She was trying to quit, for him. He was her best friend.
One night, she had gotten into a fight with her best friend.
"Just leave me alone." she yelled.
"I'm not going anywhere, and you know it." he shouted back.
She had slid to the wall, burying her face in her hands. She had never met someone, who cared for her, as much as he did. He understood her, he made her feel better. The bond they had, was as if they were related. He loved her, he didn't want her to leave the world. She was confused, with whether she craved leaving more than having him help her.
He told her:
"If you want to cut yourself, then you're going to take my arm, look me in the eyes, and cut as many times as you would yourself."
She told him:
"I couldn't hurt you like that."
And then, she understood everything.
