Not Yours But Forever (Draft)

Part 4. THE WOLVES.

Six months before The Letter.

Dear diary,

I'm hunted. Thousand wolves follow my every step, their yellow eyes staring at me patiently in the dark. What do they want? I'm afraid I can't make it to the light. I squeeze my hands together so hard they go numb. At least I feel them. At least I'm still alive.

The darkness isn't real, and my wolves are nothing more than nightmares. Mirages... It seems my whole life isn't that different. Why am I alone against them? When it's light outside, I'm surrounded by people. Little torches everywhere, scaring away the wolves, back to their crooked woods. But at night, I stay one on one. With fear.

I'm afraid I lost Hope, even though I know I already did. It was the end for me. It would've been a mercy, to push her away, once and for all, with harsh words, with my damn indifference. But I couldn't let her go. I was her shadow-where she went I went, staying a little behind, trying my best to be sincerely interested in what she was telling me. It never worked, though. Her vigorous voice and the mischievous squint of her eyes that used to make me smile for no reason, were now all gray and faded, as if I saw her through a sepia filter, the sound of her voice powerless and muffled. I was underwater where she couldn't reach me.

I knew she noticed how far away I was from her, even though I still was physically near. She tried to not show it, but I felt her disappointment, saw it in her fleeting glance at the girls sitting in a small circle in the cafeteria, giggling and laughing with that careless youthful laugh. It was written in her eyes when she looked at me not knowing I noticed. Her eyes weren't smiling anymore, and there was anxiety in her stare that made me anxious too. But she would always smile at me when I caught her glance. Even though her eyes were late to pick up their usual gleam, she tried to be reassuring, to give me the strength that she knew she lacked herself. And that was what killed me the most.

She never got tired of trying to amuse me, bringing me with her to malls and asking to go to the movies 'cause her mom was late to pick us up and she wanted to "kill time". She'd buy us milkshakes that were supposed to be a perfect background for heartfelt talks, but were nothing more than justification of my silence. She'd try on new clothes and I'd look at her fragile figure, drowned in an oversized sweater or highlighted by a tight skirt, and think about the razor hidden in my pocket.

I never hated her, I just didn't know what to do with her feelings. You see, when you cut your arm, pressing the metal to your skin until it splits, so you can see the scarlet result of your actions, the razor doesn't care. It's soulless, and without a soul it lacks expectations. You don't have to pretend, you don't have to try and be some other person-the one you really hate, the one that reminds you of what you lost and would never have again.

It had to stop. And I stopped it. It was difficult in the beginning-she almost believed I refused to see her 'cause I was sick, or that my grandma took me with her on a trip to Seattle, or any other bullshit excuse I made up just to keep distance between us. Each day I ignored her messages, the razor in my hand burned my fingers stronger and hotter, almost begging to cut through my skin. The day my phone went silent was the day I made my deepest cut. The bleeding wouldn't stop and I remember being surprised by how much blood was trapped inside my body, and how quickly it agreed to pour out. I was lucky-my wound didn't get infected, my body healed up fast. And Hope never called me again.

If there was anything still alive inside me, it was gone with her.