Author's note: This is my first narrative that would be acceptable, writing wise. At least compared to the silly... Show full author's note »
Prologue“Some stories start in the very beginning. Others start in the middle of the climax, in futile hopes that it would capture the current readers’ attention. This story starts at the end. Why? It is unnecessary for you to understand why. This was the beginning of the end. This was the end of her. It was the end of me. It was the end of all of us, before we even started to digest what had happened.”
-Diana Mellis (friends since 5th grade)
She sat, curled up in the dark corner. Guttural, animal-like sounds emitted from her open mouth, as jumbled sentences were regurgitated unconsciously.
“Oh God…please, just let it end; stop tormenting me,” she waved her arms wildly, as if battling away her invisible demons.
Dragging herself towards her dusty, black desk, she scrambled for her secret, her comfort, her only escape, hidden in her precious spot.
“No one knows…no one will ever know,” she muttered, quite obviously insane. Ripping her sleeve up, she immediately stifled her string of nonsensical words.
She sat, poised, as if posing for an unseen camera. She slashed the gleaming blade in a multitude of lines across her pale arm, overlaying a curious set of fading to recent scars. Mesmerized, she watched as the fascinatingly vivid red tears trailed down her arms. The pain was oddly breathtaking, and her masochistic nature was once more in the open of her too-white room.
But it wasn’t enough. The comforting physical pain of the lacerations was ebbing away too quickly. Tilting her head, she hacked away at her arm until her blood flowed unceasingly, covering her arm and staining the white floor. She inhaled sharply at the pain that washed over her.
“No more, no more,” she laughed quietly, speaking to herself.
This time, the ache of her self-inflicted wounds didn’t leave. Humming, she added more lines on her other arm, in absolute concentration, as if nothing was more important than her increasingly dangerous cuts.
Pausing, as if listening for an unspoken command, she sat with her dripping razor blade a breath away from creating another rip. Bending forwards, she lifted her mess of a wrist towards her chapped lips. Licking a drop, she shuddered, as the iron tang slipped down her esophagus. She bared a feral grin at no one in particular, at least no one that could be seen with a physical eye.
She slid her middle and index finger over her wrist slowly, relishing in the pain that wracked her doll-like body as they irritated her open wounds. With blood dripping down her fingers, she almost skipped towards the bleached walls.
“What do you see? You can’t see me. You can’t hear me,” she sang, “I can hear them, they’re close. They’re beckoning me.”
She smeared on the white walls. Stepping back to admire her messy handiwork, she nearly collapsed, almost certainly a result of the lack of blood. Ignoring her sudden fatigue, she smeared handprints of her blood all over the wall, being careful not to touch her previously written words. She studied the dripping blood, slowly ruining the once white overall look of her room.
“Well that wasn’t really nice,” she spoke mockingly, in a voice one would associate as something similar to nails on a chalkboard. It was as if she was chastening a child – a child she had no interest in whatsoever.
With a poor and insane substitute of a laugh, she picked up her gleaming-red blade and placed it at her almost unrecognizable wrist. She pressed down the blade and added two dangerously deep gouges on each arm that ran all the way to the inside of her elbow. It was almost comical, seeing the gush of blood escape from her open veins, covering the gleaming white bone of her arms.
Glancing around almost carelessly, she processed the blood that was everywhere, dyeing every color and shade, until it looked like someone had tossed a bucket of blood on her and onto the floor. The blood on the walls continued to drip, staining everything in their path mercilessly.
Black spots were obstructing her vision, and the perpetual whispers in her head became louder. She smiled an inhuman smile as the darkness took over, and she fell like a broken marionette, discarded aside.
Her disgustingly red corpse gleamed in the moonlight, in a pool of her own blood. It lay with an almost dark hilarity for a true psychotic, whereas most people would have retched at the sight. A stream of blood still flowed from the jagged lacerations upon her arms. If someone had the ability to bear the sight of her mangled arms, they would see that one of her arms seemed for all the world like it was pointing purposefully at the wall she had written on moments ago.
In distinct crimson blood, the wall read, “F*** you”.