The next morning, I wake up, shower, and dress in short faded denim shorts, a tight hot pink t-shirt, and low-cut black and white Converse. For my blue hair, i straighten it and leave it down. Then I take a selfie and post it to Twitter. "@beauty.redefined first morning in the California apartment. Missing Wisconsin." I get a comment right away. "@WesleyPlusStorm missing you... Still beautiful! Dyed your hair! ;)" i reply with "@beauty.redefined @WesleyPlusStorm Thanks! Missing you too, everyday. :"( yep i did. ;)" After that, we keep the conversation private by FaceTiming each other.
"Wow you're gorgeous... Blue hair really brings out your eyes." He says over the connection.
"Thanks. I really miss you... So much." And in that moment i miss him so much.
"You too." He says, and his voice cracks. The connection's clear and I can see his eyes filling with tears. Mine do too.
"Just... Um... Hang on a sec." I say, and I go find my razor. I cut, and it feels good, so I keep cutting until I feel faint. I stumble back over to my phone and pick it up.
"Holy crap Storm you just cut didn't you?!" He says.
"I'm sorry... Yes how'd ya know?" I'm feeling dizzy.
"When.. When you picked up the phone I saw blood on your wrists..." He says.
"Oh..." I can barely respond, and apparently he see this because he says:
"Don't leave me Storm, please!" And I black out.
****************
"Storm you gotta come back, please!!" Sobbing. My eyelids are heavy and it's difficult to breathe, so I just concentrate on breathing as I fall into and out of consciousness, never able to do or say anything. A while later, I hear the voice again.
"Storm... Please..." The voice cracks on the "please."
I don't know how long it's been, but it's horrible. Has it been months? Or simply hours? I can't tell, but it's hard to breathe and only getting harder every time my mind pulls back to consciousness. The voice repeats it's phrase every so often "Storm, come on." "Wake up." Stuff like this. And then i fade out for a long time.
When I come back to subconsciousness again, it hurts. Hurts to breathe. My wrists hurt. Voices in the background.
"Don't think she's gonna make it... Lost so much blood... She isn't waking... It's been a while..."
The voice again: "Please." It cracks. "Please Storm. You gotta come back..."
YOU ARE READING
My Life is a Silent Hurricane
Teen FictionFor Storm Grey, her name seems to fit the description of her and her life. Acting the part of a tough teen, all hipster clothes, spikes, leather, and black, she acts tough, carefree, and easy-going. But in reality, she's silently screaming for help...
