Disclaimer: this is a really dark story with mentions of suicide, so if you're squeamish in the slightest, don't read it. Proceed with caution. ULTRA TRIGGER WARNING
She feels unloved. Unlovable. Every step she takes, she feels like she's falling.
Her heart aches, and lately she's been plagued by an incessant weight on her chest. She is suffocating.
She is suffocating. Breathing hurts, and no matter how hard she tries, she can never receive enough air.
She considers the rumors surrounding her, and wonders if she is the monster they make her out to be. She used to not believe it, but now she isn't too sure.
The love of her life seeks comfort from other women because she drives him away. She confronts him, and he is driven away even further. Never was this her intention.
Why must she always hurt people she loves? All she wants is for him to be happy with her, but she can no longer bring him joy.
Now he wants to leave, and it is all her fault.
She will remain loyal, even if he is not. She can't take to the bottle, and it seems like one of the few things to lessen her pain. To make her numb when she feels too much.
There is one new alternative that she is not considered until now. Sorrow truly clouds one's judgment.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for her kitchen knife, but shaking and quivering has become the new normal. She disregards it.
The steel blade grazes across her pristine flesh. No one is there to see. No one is present to stop her.
One, two, three, she counts the jagged patterns created on her arm. The pain is excruciating but somehow it lessons her mental anguish. It's the only release she's had for weeks, so she revels in it. Distract me, please, she begs.
She draws more blood, and it trails down her skin and drips onto the floor. Drip, drip, drip. She disregards it.
She cannot bring herself to stop, even though part of her said she ought to. The majority of her arm is caked with blood, and she begins to feel lightheaded. She struggles to keep her eyes open, and an oppressive weight tries to consume her. She disregards it, or does her best to.
The kitchen knife feels so much heavier now, and so does her body. Her shaking never ceases as she slowly brings the blade to her neck. The blood on her trembling fingers almost causes the knife to slip out of her grip a few times, but she does not relent.
Slowly, she drags the knife across her neck, but the exhaustion makes it at least twice more challenging. Time seems to grind to a halt, and she asks herself why it is taking so long to end her own miserable life. Her vision is fading, and she feels herself slipping away before she's even made it a third of the way across her neck. Losing her grip on reality. Forever, she hopes, uttering a prayer to the Emperor asking for forgiveness.
"I am sorry," she hoarsely whispers before she collapses, the blade falling to the ground in front of her.
She feels unloved. Unlovable. Every step she takes, she feels like she's falling.
Her heart aches, and lately she's been plagued by an incessant weight on her chest. She is suffocating.
She is suffocating. Breathing hurts, and no matter how hard she tries, she can never receive enough air.
She considers the rumors surrounding her, and wonders if she is the monster they make her out to be. She used to not believe it, but now she isn't too sure.
The love of her life seeks comfort from other women because she drives him away. She confronts him, and he is driven away even further. Never was this her intention.
Why must she always hurt people she loves? All she wants is for him to be happy with her, but she can no longer bring him joy.
Now he wants to leave, and it is all her fault.
She will remain loyal, even if he is not. She can't take to the bottle, and it seems like one of the few things to lessen her pain. To make her numb when she feels too much.
There is one new alternative that she is not considered until now. Sorrow truly clouds one's judgment.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for her kitchen knife, but shaking and quivering has become the new normal. She disregards it.
The steel blade grazes across her pristine flesh. No one is there to see. No one is present to stop her.
One, two, three, she counts the jagged patterns created on her arm. The pain is excruciating but somehow it lessons her mental anguish. It's the only release she's had for weeks, so she revels in it. Distract me, please, she begs.
She draws more blood, and it trails down her skin and drips onto the floor. Drip, drip, drip. She disregards it.
She cannot bring herself to stop, even though part of her said she ought to. The majority of her arm is caked with blood, and she begins to feel lightheaded. She struggles to keep her eyes open, and an oppressive weight tries to consume her. She disregards it, or does her best to.
The kitchen knife feels so much heavier now, and so does her body. Her shaking never ceases as she slowly brings the blade to her neck. The blood on her trembling fingers almost causes the knife to slip out of her grip a few times, but she does not relent.
Slowly, she drags the knife across her neck, but the exhaustion makes it at least twice more challenging. Time seems to grind to a halt, and she asks herself why it is taking so long to end her own miserable life. Her vision is fading, and she feels herself slipping away before she's even made it a third of the way across her neck. Losing her grip on reality. Forever, she hopes, uttering a prayer to the Emperor asking for forgiveness.
"I am sorry," she hoarsely whispers before she collapses, the blade falling to the ground in front of her.
