Short Stories (I Dont Know What Im Doing😳)

My best friend's bracelet

Just a note:
Hey ABI, hey nel (no one else has read the last thing, so it's just to you guys😂😂😀). You know what? I should probably put this as it's own book. I'll do that, actually. Wait, maybe not. Oh, I don't know... Please tell me what you think I should do.
Okay, so this one is a lot longer, but I don't want to split it so, you know. This was actually something I did for English homework and miss kept 'forgetting' to mark😋. I haven't read through it in a while so it probably isn't very good. Another thing, this story is FICTIONAL, therefore not from my perspective. Also, if you are not comfortable reading about selfharm or anything to do with blood, this is not for you. I have warned you, I felt it was necessary due to my morbid mind (el). Also, the bit near the end in italics is just her thoughts, just in case you didn't get that.😃.Anyway, here goes...

***

I don't remember when I first realised. All I know is that it was too late. I should've been more careful - more caring - I know that now. But that can't change anything.
It must've been in our second year of secondary school, now that I think about it, when my best friend started wearing her bracelet. She always wore it so that it covered more of her wrist than was visible - half of it hidden beneath the sleeves of the cardigan which she always wore to school. I remember quite clearly the very few times I ever saw her without some form of jumper or jacket covering her - her own little shield against the cruel, cruel world. I know that there must be been others, but those were many years ago, when all we had to worry about was who we would play with the next day and what we could make for our school project on goodness knows what. Apart from these faint, distant echoes of memories, there are two clear memories of her like this - at her most vulnerable.
The first one was about five years ago. I remember it clearly because it was a day before her birthday and I had gone round to her house. It was pouring with rain but she still insisted on going outside. Once we had run around the garden like maniacs several hundred times, we both realised that we had locked ourselves out of the house, and, in our rush to get outside, had left our coats inside. The expression on her face was something that I will never, ever forget - even if I live to be a hundred. A playful grin had spread gradually across her face and her eyes had lit up with pleasure. To our nine-year-old minds, all this meant was that we most definitely had a valid excuse to stay outside, in the rain, for as long as possible. And so we ran - curls plastered to our faces, hysterical laughter flooding our mouths, wrists bare and bracelet-less - we ran... and ran... and ran until her mother realised what had happened and ushered us inside, moaning and muttering all the while.
Her mother.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to her - the lively, motherly woman living down the road - and it's as if she's disappeared, but then I'll see her, wandering aimlessly down our street as though in search of answers, her face pale, all trace of laughter and light absent from her eyes. It is in these moments that I am reminded that pain is inevitable - even for the liveliest of souls.

But that memory was before the bracelet, before either for us could ever say that we had known hardship - when we truly were just kids, undisturbed by the problems surrounding us and innocent to all true suffering. The second memory is much more vivid - fresher in my mind. It was almost a year ago by now, but it still feels like yesterday. We had found her in her bathroom not long after she had disappeared from school. I remember running, panic rising in my chest. I remember going over and over the past day's conversations in my head - confused, wondering: why? Why? I remember thinking of what I could've d- . . .
Fine. I'm lying - I don't remember any of these things - these emotions. I don't remember crying either, only running, running till my legs gave out underneath me and I collapsed - but not before fate had dealt cruelly - not before I glimpsed her lifeless body lying oh so still on the floor, her wrists mangled with old scars and new wounds - so many new wounds - bleeding, pouring, draining her very life force. Only then did I scream . . .

She had been ill - I know that now. But, then again, there are lots of things that I know now. But this was, by far, the worst. My friend - my best friend - had been ill, fatally so, and I was too self-absorbed to notice. It hurt that she had hidden it from me - hidden it so much that she had even worn that blasted bracelet just so I wouldn't get hurt, just so I wouldn't see. I suppose she hid it because she cared - cared that my trust would not be broken, cared that no one except her should get hurt, cared, cared, cared. . . she had always been caring towards everyone . . . everyone - that is - except herself. I would be lying if I said I didn't understand why - why she found herself drawn to solitude, why she could not bring herself to cry out - even if she had wanted to - , why she wanted so very badly to leave - to drop the pain, drop the fear, and just run - to leave the body which made her feel so insecure - so broken - for it to be nailed into a box, buried down...
Down...
Down
beneath the feet of strngers, to be forgotten about - completely and utterly erased from distance without leaving stains on the memories of family and friends - a clean break - without leading them into the same abyss which had torn her to pieces . . .

But you can't have everything . . .

***

I pull down my long sleeves as she walks towards me. She could never replace my best friend, but, then again, she's all I have. The material scratches the tender skin on the back of my hand - rubbed raw by nails so full of hatred for all my faults and flaws, that it is almost unbearable. Almost. But everyone has their coping strategies, and this is mine.
She smiles at me and sits down in the chair next to me. I wince at the scraping sound of the chair - a wake-up call. When she looks at me again, I smile, every muscle in my face tense as it fights to keep it there - a mask nearly slipping.
But I'm too far gone.
If I stop now, it will seem sudden - hasty, even - a desperate plea for attention. And so I pass another opportunity, and another.
"Hey", her words startle me, breaking the thin thread of thought that I was wrapped up in . . . serves me right.
"Hey".
My reply sounds strained, even to my own ears, but still, she sees nothing. I remind myself that that is good - ignorance is good - less pain for them. 'Stop being selfish! Please . . . just stop. This is all you ever wanted, isn't it? Isn't it? You know no one cares, don't you? So stop holding on. Just give up, freak.'
It's ironic, really, in some ways, considering everything that has happened. Guess I never learn.

I pull my long sleeves down still further until my wrists are hidden - shielded from judgement, along with a faded red bracelet that hides there . . .