Chapter Twenty:
I was mightily relieved after I read my poem and left the stage. It was difficult, telling this crowd of people about my depression, about my forbidden and unknown feelings for the mysterious and depressed Lia Hart. I clambered down the steps and sat back down, not listening to the people who were reading after me. I merely clapped when everyone else clapped.
That is, until Mrs. Samberg called, "LIA HART!" into the dark room. I snapped to attention, my eyes trained on the stage.
Lia trudged up the stairs in her dark getup. Her hair swung forward, half covering her face as she made her way to the stool and sat down. Her eyes looked down at her lap. She had no paper. She looked shy and a slight blush stained her normally milky skin tone. My heart thudded a little bit faster. She was so beautiful and she obviously didn't see it. She cleared her throat, a whispery ahem and then began to speak in a voice that sounded raspy from disuse, yet high pitched and musical, like each word she spoke was another opportunity to burst into a lullaby.
Red.
White.
Black and Blue.
Blood.
Skin.
Bruises.
Knife.
Pills.
River.
The colors are dull.
The sounds are faint.
The feelings are unknown
to this mystery girl.
She only sees
red and white and black and blue.
She only hears the
hiss of the water.
The rasp of the knife
on her skin.
The guttural gulp
of the forbidden pills.
She only feels the
sadness
and the pain
and the loneliness.
She's not good enough,
she never will be.
But she will die.
Just like all of us do.
She will die with beauty.
Because she lives in
ugliness.
Her end draws
nearer and nearer.
And she isn't at all afraid.
Because she welcomes death
with open arms,
ready to move onto
the next existence.
She just wants to rest.
Lia stopped reading and looked out at the crowd. Her eyes found mine again and we just gazed at each other. I saw how sad she was, how raw her painful emotions were. I attempted to look sympathetic, but I probably just looked unhappy. That was how I normally looked. The audience clapped and my hands stung and turned red from the force of my applause. It was a sad poem but a good one.
She slipped off the stool and glided across the stage and down the steps, disappearing into the crowd. I couldn't see her in the darkness. Someone else got called up but I wasn't paying attention.
Under the pretense of getting myself some punch, I rose from my seat, looking around the room, and headed over to the refreshment table. It was then that I saw her. She was slinking out of the back door practically as silent as a shadow and almost as dark. She closed the door behind her and it hit me what she was leaving to do.
Because I knew she wasn't coming back. Ever.
YOU ARE READING
Thirteen
Teen FictionShe's waiting for the day when she can sink the knife a little deeper, throw herself down a little farther. She is tired. She wants rest. She is waiting. He's waiting for the day when his stomach shrinks into nothingness, until he can take his last...
