• It Sinks In...
    She looked absent mindedly around the shaded room she called her own. Peeling her hands and wrists from her face, she realized how many scrapes and bruises there really were. Not only were they vibrant and swollen, the cuts were fresh and scarred, permanently imprinted on her flesh. Her hands themselves… They were black from fresh and old mascara, dried in long lines down her cheeks and neck.

    Even her enemies were beginning to worry about her suicidal condition. Why, even those individuals who paid the least bit of attention to this averagely dressed girl could tell her apart from the others. She could have the same haircut, color, skin, and clothing as any others, but her eyes would not gleam as all others do. Others had something to look forward to… A family that cared, maybe even a boyfriend that cared, and if they were tired they could take a long nap. But she didn’t. Her family couldn’t care any less than they did, in her eyes, and the idea of a boy that would care for her was a journey out of reach. If she thought of sleep, she thought of only death.

    Her skin didn’t glow, it dimmed with every sunrise. Her cheeks were wide from misuse of frowning, and underuse of smiling. She didn’t walk, she limped, and sometimes she crawled, pressing her head to the floor occasionally as if to escape to Hell, where anyone who had done wrong was gladly accepted. Her eyes closed once more and she leaned back against a wall in the corner of her room, knowing that she could choose to quicken her misery. This could, in fact, be her penultimate hour.