Tears rushing down my face, I look down to my stained wrists and sob. They hurt, they fucking hurt. Why? Why did I do this to myself? The thoughts that instructed me to do this, were stale and no longer my own. The voices I heard each day were taunting and merciless, they hurt me, they controlled me.
I sit there, alone in the darkened corner, becoming a part of it. I struggle to move my hands and when I do, they sting. The air is hazy and smells fetid. I don’t want to breathe it in, but I have no choice. I hear faded voices outside which turn to whispers. Paranoia consumes me, it makes me the subject of these. She’s insane. She’s ugly. She’s trash. Yes, I am, I tell myself. What is the point of breathing, talking, tasting, loving or laughing? What’s the point of feeling another’s lips pressed against mine, claiming me, engulfing me, and my hands intertwining with his? Nothing. I can see my mother picking the shards of hope and potential from the floor to weave me back together, or rather try. I can see my father shaking his head with disappointment and giving me up without hesitation; that has always been him. I stand. My hands are stinging again. The tap begins to drip its clarity upon my wounds, making me tense up; I am broken. The cats outside begin to claw at one another, the ambulance rushes past, the dog barks and I am left here. I am left not known or in the thoughts of someone; I am barely existing.
I can see a face in the shattered mirror. It is pale and lifeless; it is mine. I am barely alive you see. I no longer feel anything anymore as the sharp blade pierces through my skin. I smile and weep as the vermillion coloured blood escapes from beneath me. I know that this is wrong and selfish, but I am no longer who I used to be. Leaves falling softly to the ground, the final ice cream scoop into the cone, the application of bright red lipstick and the catching of falling snow in my mouth, don’t bring me happiness or release. I have lost the simplicity of these actions, I have lost me. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be the one who went out, who applied the red lipstick with pride, who strutted the mini skirt and tight tank tops and I used to be the one who could get anyone I wanted. Now look at me. The lipstick no longer glides over smoothly as it once did. My lips are cracked and dry, my body is limp and has become one that I don’t want to see; now I hide away in remorse and fear.
What are you doing? the voice inside my head screams to me. I try to fight it off, I try to bat it away from me, I fail. I fall. Down, down spiralling out of control. I cover my head, I end up squeezing too hard and hurt myself even more. I don’t cry this time. I just let it happen. It’s like I am constantly holding my head above the water, struggling not to give up and let myself go. The cats no longer claw at one anothe, there is silence; one is dead. The tap has stopped dripping, the dog no longer barks, the siren has faded into the distance and the whispers have gone. I hear footsteps approaching. Mum.
“Ally, are you home?” Nothing.
They are sitting there, only metres in front of me. I want to end this.
“Ally…!” The voice stops, the footsteps are louder now.
I pour several into my hand, I look around one more time. I inhale, I exhale.
“Ally, where are you?”
The footsteps at the closed door now. Their silhouette shows itself. She knocks, she knocks louder. My ears ring and my heart rate increases. No more disappointment now, no more lowered expectations, no more of me fucking everything up. No more existing in a world that I do not match.
The door. The door breaks down. I swallow. I am gone.