Virgin_Suicide

My wrists r crying red.
2003-03-15 12:19:56 (UTC)

Death Becomes Her.


The warmth from the sun shined through the windows. She
closed the curtains. She did not want to be reminded of
what the outside was like when she was inside.

She shivered from the coldness coming from her heart, so on
went the dressing gown and she snuggled beneath her warm,
tartan sleeping bag.

Chocolate digestives lay on her lap, ready to be eaten.
One after one, they were munched up in her mouth,
hopelessly trying to fill up her empty body.

Exhaustion rang continually through her ears, consuming her
until all she could do was huddle into a darkened corner,
but she did not close her eyes. Instead, she looked around
her room, analysing everything she saw: the smoke of the
incense stick she had lit in the reflection from her
mirror, it cascaded up in to the ceiling, then disappeared;
a picture she had drawn a few months ago was lazily stuck
to the wall by blue-tack, it showed a rough sea made up of
greys and blues, bordered by misty cliffs.

She reached for a drink of diluting orange that had been
waiting to be finished for two days. She stretched out her
arm to grasp for it but it got caught on the sleeve of her
dressing gown. A thud came from the cup as it fell to the
floor. The juice flowed around her messy carpet then was
swallowed up. She grunted at the uselessness of her body,
and reluctantly pulled herself up. She half-heartedly
mopped up the remains of the juice with a towel, still in
her room from the last spill. She realised, yet again, the
clumsiness of herself and scolded her stupidity.

She huddled back in to her corner, wondering what the hell
she would do today. There were many choices but none of
them suited her – she decided her studying would have to
wait another day and her room was left in its usual state.

Suddenly, she stood up and ran to the telephone. She was
about to answer it when she realised it was not ringing.
Perhaps, she thought, I had not reached it in time: she
was sure she had heard it ring. So she picked it up and
put it in to her dressing gown pocket, in case it made
another imaginary sound. She stood stationery for a few
moments, waiting for her brain to tell her body what to do
next, it told her to huddle up again but she was fed up of
doing this.

She did not want to do anything. Boredom was all around
her, so that everything she could see what to do seemed
pointless and useless. So she turned to the only thing
that made sense, it lay hidden under her pillow, away from
anybody’s prying eyes.

Her right-hand, the same one used to knock the cup over,
reached under her pillow and pulled out a piece of tinted-
red glass. It had descended from a broken alcohol bottle,
thrown against a brick wall. Her fingers felt around the
edges of the nearly blunt glass, searching for a sharp
ridge. She found one and dug it into her right-arm, as a
punishment to nobody or anything in particular. Pain was
present but it did not register in her brain, all that she
noticed was the poisoned blood escaping from her arm. It
dribbled across and over her arm like a river – the same
way the spilled juice had scrolled over the carpet until it
was soaked up. But her blood was not soaked up. It
continued its journey on her arm. She watched it until it
was reduced to a trickle. And continued watching it until
all that remained was dried up blood, closing up the newly
made scar.

That is when it started. Her crying. The tears ran like
her blood had done a few moments before. She ran to the
mirror and watched her face change. Before, it had no
emotion, just the palest of skin. Now her cheeks turned
red and her lips began to tremble, unable to hold back her
rain. Her eyes filled up with acidic tears until they were
filled to the brim, they fell down her cheeks and then
evaporated.

Silence was broken by the screeching whines coming from her
heart. The sound, full of pain, filled her room. It went
out under her door - gradually filling up her whole house.
She expected her crying to decline, but it did not, it
continued. The more she tried to stop, the greater the
screeching.

Soon enough she had fallen on to her carpet, trembling
endlessly. She scrunched up into a ball and created
tension in her arms and legs by squeezing them tightly. It
seemed to help for soon enough, like her blood, the tears
were slowing down.

Once having enough energy to pick her back up, she snuggled
beneath her sleeping bag, which had fallen away from her
when she had reached under her pillow. She secluded
herself in to the corner again, this time closing her
eyes. Her breathing softened as she began to fall in to a
deep sleep. Her head cleared from the confusion of the
world surrounding her life. She had found comfort, and for
a few moments at least, she believed she was dead.




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