Tortured Soul Asylum

{{I began writing this story three years ago and finished it just last year. It is REALLY short but the only story I have ever written that I have finished.

The title is taken from a Cradle of Filth song, so I do not take credit for that. However, the rest of the story is all mine.

The inspiration for this story came from my being hospitalized in 2010 for the first time. I thought I would try to write about a girl who had it much worse than I ever did. This story was my way of getting out all of my crazy thoughts. so I created a troubled girl who struggled with many problems I did, only her problems were very much more exaggerated.}}

Prologue

My body is my canvas. My knife is my pen. With that, I make the past, present, and future of my life.

I paint intricate ladder rungs on my arms, zebra stripes on my legs, choker necklaces on my neck, geometric lines on my hips, and broken hearts on my chest. Just let the fat and the blood and all the other bad things leak out. What if it kills me, some day? I hope so. I have nothing to stay here for anymore.

I am ugly, stupid, and unimportant.

Chapter One

Skeletal shadows sneak out from behind the dresser. I envy their thinness.

"What are you still doing here?" they ask me, with rotting breath that freezes in the chilled air.

They shoot out towards me, digging their skinny bone fingers into my bloated stomach. The darkness of their twisted faces overshadows my view; I can't see anything but their bloodshot eyes glowing in the dark. Then I finally awaken and open my eyes. I find a rusted nail lodged in my palm. I pull it out of my flesh, admiring the sharp pain as the blood gushes. My hand finds my jeans and pulls the waistband down to carve into my hip, 'Amber doesn't exist.' On the last 'T,' the nail hits an artery running up my leg and the crimson blood spills rapidly down my leg.

The shadows laugh wickedly.
Everything goes black.

†

I wake up, breathing deep with tears in my eyes. It had unfortunately only been a dream. It is now ten in the morning on a Wednesday, and Mother is not home. It's never a surprise, nor a question as to where she is staying.

My resolve is strong as ever this morning. You know what they say: Another year is another way to die. That's how it goes down in my book, at least.

So I crawl out of bed and go to pee.

After the water and diet soda is out of my system, I strip and step on the scale. Weight = 94.5. BMI = 14.8. I can't stand the sensation of being in this body, and I won't be able to until I decompose in the ground.

I throw my pajamas back on and slink to the kitchen, to the medicine cabinet, to the two bottles of sleeping pills. Get a glass of water. Sit and chill by my laptop.

My indecisive brain screams at me, "NO do not do this Why do you want this What is wrong with you YOU DON'T WANT TO DIE." I logically remember what led to this (again) and why this is the decision that makes the most sense.
Mother is an old widow who is drunk night and day.
Daddy died when I was 4, and all I remember are his fists on my mother.
I know everyone at school talks about me, I hear them in my head saying that I'm fat for an anorexic. I cut myself open like a crazed surgeon. When will I actually get around to committing suicide?
See?
No one's there.
And soon I won't exist.

  My brain is now defective and I can barely pass my classes to that I used to race through, hungry for education.
My body has been desecrated and unclean since my uncle's crime against me at ten years old.
My blood is thin and sick with anemia. My bones are weak and brittle like my illusive grandmother. 
I'm will no longer consent to letting my heart beat one more day, one more hour.