[trigger warning: um, I'm not entirely certain this qualifies, but I'm going to place it here just in case. while I do not outright write scenes of self-harm and/or violence, there are insinuations and this story deals with mental illness(es) and its(their) effects. such cases would include: anxiety, the need for everything to be perfect (or OCD, but that illness has varying degrees and this is simply only one of them), depression, etc. while I'd love for you to read this, if any of these things set you off, please don't read. I'd rather you be happy and healthy than put yourself through things that make you feel bad. if you read on, thanks! but do not feel obligated to. love, Madi]
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Let the night take you, the wind breathes in her ears. It snakes through one ear and wraps itself around her mind, constricts itself, never lets go. She ignores the small voice, shakes off as much of it as she can. The streets are much too deserted, she observest—too empty and too dark. The city that never sleeps appears to have abandoned her.
She splashes through the puddles in the middle of the street, hurrying, hurrying. Clouds escape from her mouth, warm her nose, flee to the city behind her. She pulls her hood further down, keeps her eyes on the ground. Why is she so alone? Where did the excitement of the city go? She has never experienced a solitude such as this.
The wind slithers up to her, twists itself around her legs over and over. She shudders and glances back briefly-are they following? Did they see where she ran off to? She shakes her head and picks up speed. Away, away; flee as fast as you can. Get away, get away, she chants to herself silently. There is not enough oxygen in her lungs to say the words out loud.
Find a crowd—
—the night—
—people will help you—
—let it take you—
—they will save you—
—it will end you.
She bursts forth onto a new street, leaving the other, darkened street behind. This one is more brightly lit-more people are here, enjoying themselves. No tears, she tells herself as she wipes away droplets that have slipped down her cheeks. Friends, find your friends. Where are they?
Pizza, pizza. She searches for their regular pizza joint—they are meeting there, she remembers now. She is late. Are they worried? Do they know something is wrong? She hopes not, she hopes not. She is almost there-so close to freedom, so close to escape.
The wind becomes violent, tugging, tugging. It rips at her hoodie, whips her hair about her face. She swallows and trudges on—she can make it. She will make it. The wind hisses angrily, snakes further into her mind. The night is upon you, it whispers harshly. It will have you.
A whimper escapes her throat before she can help it, before she presses her lips into a thin line. She keeps her gaze to the ground, only looking up to see if their meeting place is in sight. There, she breathes, more weight lifting from her chest. I can see it, so close. Just a few more steps.
The bell chimes above her, the chill howls as it is pushed away by warmth. She scans the sea of faces for her friends, finds them waving to get her attention. She smiles, they mustn't know. They must never know about the demon that sits on her shoulder. She is safe.
Her silver shoes barely smudged with dirt are the only indication of what she has been through.
