Silence

Prologue

Copyright. 2013

Prologue:

'She paints a pretty picture, but there is a twist. Her paint brush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.'

Pain is the greatest feeling.

The adrenaline, that rush when you cut, the blade piercing your skin. It's artwork, it makes you feel alive. We want pain when we're angry. We want to harm ourselves when we feel that crying would make us vulnerable.

Except, the truth is we are cowards. Cowards to face the reality of it all. Cowards to admit to the truth which lies in plain display. We are weak, harming ourselves doesn't make us strong. It's an illusion, we believe what we want to believe. We replace the real thing with a false memory that our brain conjured up. Yes, we are capable of that.

When some of us are traumatised to the core, we don't talk about it. Infact, we never talk about it. We don't tell others what happened to us, and do certain things, to distract ourselves.

Mine is experiencing brutal pain.

I glanced at the mirror, and saw another girl looking back at me. She looked depressed, she looked like as if she loathed life itself. She looked like as if she couldn't take anything anymore. Her hands were shaking as she looked back at me.

No, this girl was me. Seven years ago, I wouldn't have been able to recognise myself. Seven years ago, I was happy. Seven years ago, I didn't have this strong urge to cut myself. Seven years ago, I wasn't so numb that I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to watch the blood trickle down my hands. I wanted to harm myself just to feel something. What is wrong with me?

I took a deep shaky breath. My hands were sweating as I took another drag of the cigarette. I closed my eyes, as another tear slid down my cheek.

You won't do it, you will not submit to your urge. Be strong, my conscious whispered to me.

What if I didn't want to? What if I just wanted to give up and surrender to the appealing razor that lay five feet away from me? Just one cut, and maybe, just maybe, my misery would end.

Because honestly, I'm tired of the fights which I'm always losing, I'm tired of crying myself to sleep every night, I'm tired of being judged, manipulated, and used.

I'm tired of being silent.

So I dropped my cigarette on the floor, and stretched to pick up the razor.

How many years can one girl be silent without doing anything? How many years can one girl be suppressed without being addicted to something? How many years can one girl be oppressed without taking her life? How many years can one girl suffer through emotional abuse without becoming filled with fury and vengeance?

What I am about to do, will be of cowardice and will not serve justice to the other girls who are out there. But honestly, I just don't care anymore. I am scared of myself. Scared of what I will do to the ones who has hurt me in the past.

So with the razor in my left hand, I started my last artwork.

This will be the picture that will not be taken.

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Hey guys! I hope you like this prologue that I have set up. :D

Listen to the song on the side. And this chapter is dedicated to the amazing and creative author, CrayonChomper. NO SERIOUSLY I LOVE YOU. I wish I could be half as creative as you. Huge fan!! Sorry, got a little bit too excited. Don't run away! I swear I'm not crazy! Maybe. O.o

I don't have a goal, but I'd be honoured if you guys appreciate the crap that I write. :P So please vote or comment, and share my story? :3 PM me if you ever wanna talk, and I'm always on the clubs!

Remember to always wear clothes when going outside! O.o

-LB