“Nothing.” She says

“I am nothing.” She whispers to herself through a stone-cold stare and gritted teeth to her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes met her own gaze with a look of contempt. If looks could kill, this would be the final hour. The whites of her eyes red from taking a hit a little too big of the blunt of life she rolled up that night. Tears escaping from her eyes as if they were prisoners who finally found a way out. Her cheeks flushed red as if she had been slapped by the hands of a ghost. Her lungs were injured by anxiety. Suffocating, she could barely breathe.

“Nobody can know…’ She cries out in agony as she slowly slips down to the ground. Blood was on her hands. She was guilty of self harm. Her heart was the crime scene and her mind was the culprit. Bloody footprints trailed her everywhere she went. Wearing her heart on her sleeve was met with consequences by leaving blood on everyone she would meet. No one wanted to touch her except for the masochists and the sadists. She was treated as a disease.

“I hate me!” She let out in a blood curdling scream. Her hands pulling at the roots of her hair desperately trying to pull it out to ease the emotional pain she felt. Like a rocking chair, she swayed back and forth upon the cold bathroom floor on her knees. A razor blade she takes and slices her wrists to let the cold out of her veins, hoping to feel warm again. Too scared to cut too deep, but too full of self-hatred to stop. Suicide was a midnight dream calling her name like a sweet aroma in the midst of a bakery.

“What’s wrong?” asked by those around her, clearly seeing the damage that plagued her. Expressing herself was unsafe. Most of the time, she had no idea how she felt. She was never given that kind of freedom. Feelings were a privilege she had no access to. Her life was a battlefield and every step forward was a landmine. Her family had no idea how to deal with her. They resorted to discarding her bloody remains instead of listening to her screams. Her presence continued to go unseen. Desperate for survival she became.

“You’re the problem!” They pointed their fingers at her. She couldn’t escape. The bathroom quickly became her safe space. Overdosing became a failed attempt. It was as if death, himself, had spit in her face. Though she was alive, she had no idea how to live. Every day mocked her with the laughter of disapproval and disgrace had taken the rights over her name. An innocent soul had quickly became a liability to the world around her at such a sweet, young age. Her innocence was a stolen commodity.

“What’s wrong?” They would ask her with an attitude, as if she didn’t have the right to be struggling. Their concerns and questions would hit her like bullets to the chest. She only ever tasted their bitterness and resentment, when most of the time they were really just perplexed and helpless. She had no idea how to answer and constant betrayal had taken away her trust. How could she let someone in? She was desperate for a savior and had no idea how to ask for help. Even if she spoke, would anyone dare to save her? She spoke up once, but her family took her away and hid her to save themselves. Hope was a friend she had a hard time keeping, allowing other things to constantly get in the way. Somehow, hope remained, but only off in the distance hanging on to her by a thread..

The night continued to be her best friend, always shoving hope away. Light was not allowed in. Her soul had no window to open. She so desperately wanted to be living in freedom with life, as she was secretly in love with him. However, she was stuck in a relationship with death who tied her hands behind her back and had his hands held tight around her neck. Her dark lover held onto her like a noose, ready to kick her legs out from under her. One wrong move and game over.

Day in and day out, death would rehearse with her.

What to say,

What to do,

How to breathe,

How to behave.

Her bathroom meetups with death kept her in-line and constantly weak. Her constant hatred would seep through her veins and out through her screams. Her cries so vile, others treated her tears as if they were acid rain. Her presence became poison. Even she couldn’t sit with herself. Death loved every bit of her, though. Slurped up her poisoned aroma with his forked tongue. Constantly consoling her with insults and dirty little lies. He would even wrap her in a blanket of depression. The weight was so heavy, she could barely crawl. She would often lay sprawled out on the bathroom floor, paralyzed by the disease of her emotion.

Her life was on the line and she couldn’t afford to lose.

“Nothing.” She says.

It was the only answer safe to choose.

The End