Dear World, this is the story of how everything started and ended. This is the story of how I tried to live but, failed. This is the short version of the story that narrates my suicide. I waited eight days before I did it. There are eight reasons wh...
"It's a bet. All you need is for her to tell you that she loves you. You need her not to be the ice queen that she is. Stop being an idiot Ace," I could feel the invisible hand slam into my chest and pull out my heart that was beating between its fingers. I watched in terror as the hand had commenced squeezing the life out of it. Those words destroyed anything that was left within my body, those words smashed the progress that I was beginning to make. Those words ended my life. I should've expected it, I should've known that he would never like me the way I liked him. I should've known that this was all a fantasy, that this was the world's sick way of reminding me that I'll never get the happy endings I used to read about. This is what happens when you expose yourself when you show the parts of yourself that you've always kept hidden within yourself. People throw your heart into the garbage, they help you break down those walls just so that they can be the reason that you build them even higher and thicker.
I've grown tired to the point where I have no tears left to cry, I have no more strength to build those walls because I have no more cement to build those walls with, I have nothing left. My body is a hollow shell being paraded around by this puppeteer called life. I give it my consent to pull the strings and change me in any way that it pleases.
"It won't be hard for him. She's desperate," he didn't even defend me. He didn't try to tell them that the words they were uttering weren't okay, he didn't shoot them the famous glares that he normally does to everyone else, he didn't even try to pretend that I meant something to him. He smiled, smirked, showed those pearly teeth behind the same plump lips he used to charm me, he laughed at my expense.
"I shouldn't have bet against you," his other friend said. "You always manage to win." He was right; I wouldn't have bet against him either. He somehow found a way to sneak past the heavily armed security I kept posted around my heart, he unlocked the chains that kept me prisoner and replaced them with new ones.
"What can he say? They always fall for the eyes," he friend said. Again, he was right. Those eyes deceived me, they fooled me into believing that he was sincere, they made me feel like I was the only one. I fell hard for those two forests, I fell for those green apples. I fell for him.
I ran away from the sight of Ace and his friends, not caring if they could hear my heavy footsteps retreating from them, retreating from the embarrassment that I was forced to feel. It was my fault because there was no way that I could blame him. I knew, deep down, that no one could ever love me but, I wanted someone to prove me wrong. I wanted to be selfish for once and allow someone to take care of me. I wanted, no, I needed someone by my side. Instead, he validated my point. He confirmed that I need to end my life because it doesn't matter.
Society doesn't need nor want me. Society craves someone whom is below a size six, it fancies someone with a clear face, it wants someone with long, elegant legs, it wants someone that isn't shattered beyond repair, it needs a girl with a thigh gap and perfect teeth, it needs perfection; I can't give perfection. I will always be a disappointment.
That's how I ended up in front of my bathroom mirror, all of my clothes discarded onto the bathroom rugs underneath my feet, my eyes bloodshot, gravity running snot down onto my lips, razor between my fingers, fear, and anger running wild. Part of me didn't want to do it. It begged me to put that little piece of metal down, pleading with me not to give over my control to an abiotic object. The other part of me screamed to slit my wrists like paper. That was the side that was victorious.
I sat down on the floor, the razor laying against my skin, my teeth ripping apart my lip in anxiety, my heart already bracing what was yet to come. My teeth clenched hard as I roughly dug the metal into my arm, watching as the blood leaked onto the wound, dancing its way down the side of my arm. The deep red blood excited me, driving me to repeat the process again and again. Finally, I was left in a bloody mess, my arm shaking from all the blood I had lost. Some of my blood dripped onto the rug and I smiled. There was no point in trying to clean it up because I knew my mother wouldn't pay close attention to the red spots.
The pain started to subside and the nothingness came back. Before I knew what I was doing, I was reaching into my medicine cabinet for alcohol. It was like I was an autopilot, forced to watch in horror as I poured the alcohol onto the wounds, forced to feel the pain that I've never felt before. It was like something was gnawing away at my skin, dissolving my veins, burning me like grease. The sensation brought a squeal from my lips, the pain engulfing areas that I never knew could be filled.
Soon, the pain ended, leaving me terrified. It was a new feeling, it was something other than the nothingness. But, I didn't know how to deal with this strange new emotion. It drove the voice in my head to its quietest point. The voice softly begged me to end it right there but, I didn't. I had one more day of life and I intended to do what I just did, over and over.
This was the first time that the voice had ever been controlled like that. It always takes me a while to quiet it down after it has degraded me throughout the whole day. But, the voice was actually afraid of me. It never knew that my psychotic thoughts would lead to me voluntarily burning myself. It never thought that I had the balls to treat myself like a stranger. It was wrong.
I'd never treat a stranger the way I treat myself. No one could possibly take the insults I give myself without having several psychological breaks before the day has ended. No one can take feeling nothing, wanting to feel everything, but settling for something. Anything. No one can change their face like I can, people can't forget themselves long enough to give their permission for other people to choose how they are deemed to feel. No one can handle this but me.
Sometimes, I like to pretend that I am that blue butterfly that landed in my hair when I was little. Butterflies only survive for two days before the world takes them away. I feel like I've only lived for two days and now the world is about to take me away.
This is reason #7. Myself.
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Hai, I just wanted to thank everyone for reading this. I have one chapter left.
