Considered Insane: How They Saved My Life (NO LONGER UPDATING)

Oh, the little men, marching, marching, marching around the basement I call my room, my safety, my home. The people in my town are convinced I'm possessed or insane, whichever suites them. They care more for themselves, overlooking my scarred arms and the hateful message "Die Bitch" scrawled on my stomach with a knife last year; a result of the shits that stoop low enough to bully a nobody like me. The little men in black marching band uniforms march for me every day as I spill my thoughts, feelings, troubles, delights, and secrets to them. They are always there to listen to me, marching on an on. I don't know why they do; I'm just a worthless nobody who hates her life and the world around her along with all of its worthless inhabitants.

One day, they stop marching, stop playing the music intended for my ears only, frozen in the middle of their saddest march. All except one. The leader of the parade, the singer whose words I could not decipher even after hearing the band for the latter years of my life, walks up to my feet and I stare in awe and shock, the small blade slipping from my arm and hand mid-slice, falling to the wood floor with a clatter and a splatter of blood. The blade so nearly missing his perfect white-blonde hair, the man glides towards me, missing the bounce in his step that a person should have when they walk. I blankly reach for the blade again, ready to rip more of my scarred skin.

"Don't. Skye please, do not pick up that blade again," He cries in his small voice, tears spilling onto and staining his pale cheeks. "I can't take it anymore!"