If Life Doesn't Kill You, Emptiness Will.

Long Chapter

|| A "Short"-Story ||

The demons crawl around in my head. They take over my movements, actions, words. It all causes insecurities and anxiety. No breaks unless of course they get something they want. That tends to be never, due to the failure that I am.

See? They're doing it again. I don't feel alone when thinking, nor do I ever. My body shakes and crumbles to the ground, leaving me to break down in tears. I sob, and sob, and sob — but does that help? No, it does not. The pain doesn't relieve itself until I inflict that pain onto my own paper skin.

How awful it feels to pull through it all, enduring all of the harmful waves casted upon me. I keep asking when it all ends, but they counter it by asking when it all started. I can't seem to remember the good ol' days that everyone talks about. What do you mean you miss the old me?

Everyone but me is happy. Sure, I act like I am, but inside I can feel the sting of the pokes and prods the demons give me. They want out. They want complete control. They want me to lose it all, let go. I want to give in, but then they'd all think I'm weak. What does being weak mean anyways? We seem to misplace the word, giving it to strong people who have broken down for even a second.

Maybe if I leave this cold, unforgiving world it'd be a better place. After all, what's my death compared to the millions of others each day?

You hope and dream and pray, but where has that really gotten you? Where has it gotten me? Us? Nothing changes unless you act upon it, and if you can't or don't want to, you can't expect it to be handed to you. You can't be fed by your guardian your entire life.

There are no angels looking over you nor me, there is nobody who can save me now. I've made up my mind, I don't want to be here for you anymore. I've given you my life and you didn't return the favor. You pushed me away, only told me it'd be okay instead of taking the time to tell me you really loved me.

This is no longer a cry for help, it's a scream for something more. I need care, love, and something that will last.

I can't control myself. Who am I again? What's my name? Where am I? Where do I belong? Certainly not here.

How many more times am I going to lose? How many more promises am I going to break? One last promise, my promise to live.

Who is this even for? I'm only talking to myself here. What's the point?

Nobody cares enough to say something, right? It's always going to lead to disappointment like everything else. I'm always let down by everyone. Maybe because I let everyone else down myself.

What do I do? What do I say? Do I lie? Tell the truth? Brutal honesty? Either way life will become even more miserable.

I know why I'm here — to suffer through the most severe pains possible. In my head, on my body, in every way imaginable.

So this is where it ends, where the trains stop, the planes land, the bus enters the garage, where the clouds become dark. It rains and pours among everything. The lightning strikes the ground I stand on, lighting me on fire.

It's not use, I can't be saved and the storm cannot simply be stopped.

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In honor of getting 500 reads.