people are poison - s.mb

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Scarlett sat at her desk, frowning. The house was empty, which was both a blessing and a curse. The beads that substituted a door to her room moved as a breeze blew through her room. She looked down at the drawing on her desk, half-finished, and tore it to shreds. She just couldn't draw.

Standing up and shutting the window silently, Scarlett was forced to look at the mirror. She was a mess, to say the least. Though she was still grounded, she was allowed to draw, but that was about it. Everything these past few days had gone so badly, she was dying inside.
Once, only once did she try to help. She was worried, but brushed off as 'just a child'. She didn't try to help.
She had gotten worse without company, her anxiety horrible. It didn't help that her mind was a mess even more.
Sitting and questioning herself was mostly what Scarlett did, refusing to do what so many others did, refusing to even wonder about death, because it would lead to dying herself.
Drawing was all she had, drawing her friends. It was never nice enough, though.
Yet she kept trying, drawing the ones closest to her with such energy, as if she was scared she would forget their face, all the while feeling slightly disgusted with herself.

One day, after panicking over something, after she thought her heart would burst, she made a plan.
As soon as this was over, she would get her drivers license and drive. She'd drive til anything that made her worry, or her heart flutter, was gone. Until she was calm and could breathe easily.

The longer she thought about it, the more detailed the plan would be. She'd write letters before she left. She'd also write occasionally to her parents if they wanted to hear from her (which, knowing her parents as much she did, probably would not happen.)

No matter how much she thought about the plan, no matter how much it calmed her, some bit of her wanted to stay, to try to help the people who she only knew because her family loved them, and she wanted to love them. To help the ones she did love, who knew of her vaguely. To help family. To stay and confront the fears that made her heart flutter. To do something worthwhile with what she had.

She couldn't decide, and accidentally, as she was falling over, knocked something over, hearing it smash. It was a porcelain statue of a cat, which lay on the ground beside her, some parts of it stuck in her arm.
But she didn't seem to care, as she cried, too tired and too confused.