The only way.

Short story about just how difficult things can get to deal with.

 She stared at the ceiling. Long cracks ran around the door, along the seam or the wall, and then darted down to the floor. She wondered if one day, the whole wall would fall down. Maybe when it fell away, it would just be the hallway as usual, but she hoped it would be a gateway to a new world, her own Narnia. Years of that door slamming could break through to a new universe. Whatever happened, the way things were going, the wall was going to crumble soon enough. The most recent argument had involved swearing, shouting, crying, and broken glass. she thought about all the arguments in the past, too many to remember individually, but they had slowly blurred in to one long on going argument, that she was sure had started at her  birth. An innocent baby, welcomed in to the world by screaming and hatred, how had they expected her to turn out?

The silence was interrupted by a knocking at the front door of her house. In the heat of the anger, everyone had left the house apart from her. She was left crying on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass, and her tears. After everyone had gone, she had attempted to pull herself together, gather her sanity, her self esteem, and some of the broken glass in case she needed it. Now she was sitting in her bedroom, her emotions still in tatters, and the glass at her side. The knocking at the door came again, whoever it was had forgotten their key, and she thanked the lord that they had. She heard the sound of the letter box followed by shouting. Her mother was screaming through the door, shouting for her to be let in. no. she wouldn’t let her in. never let her in again. Maybe she could stay in the house forever, alone in her home, with the bad things on the other side of the door. Sure, they would be waiting for the door to open, but then, she just wouldn’t open it. The banging against the glass became more violent, and soon, she knew, something would break, although, she hoped for her sake that it was her mothers knuckles, and not the glass that kept the hatred out. She closed her eyes, and inhaled the cool but over used air. She liked the fresh air, but there was none of that within the walls of her room. She looked down at the glass, 3 pieces, laying peacefully on her duvet cover of her bed. She saw her reflection on the pieces, pink puffy eyes, scruffy unwashed hair, sore and bitten lips. She hated what she saw, and threw the covers over the glass. Her own face had made her cry, the hatred for herself was stronger than the hate she had for anyone else in the world. Suddenly the pieces of glass seemed more appealing. She would be able to ignore her face staring back at her, if it meant she could end everything. The screaming at the door was still there. Constant. Open the f*****g door you little b***h. If you don’t open the door right now, I will break it down, and then I will come and get you. Empty threats, she thought. Nothing could hurt her now. She picked up the glass, and selected the sharpest piece. She placed the other two pieces back on the bed, and looked at the shard that she held in her hand. She knew that out of all the hate in her life, all the pain, and anger that she couldn’t escape by leaving the house, or sleeping, would be gone if the glass allowed it. This glass was her friend, just like the razors of previous years. All were her friends, and had served her well, but this piece would be her best friend, and it would give  her everything she wanted. An escape, sanctuary. In her death, she hoped that everyone would stop arguing for just a minute,  maybe she would help them. Nothing else could change it, nothing could stop people who were so angry from attacking each other. It was relentless. Maybe they would argue during her funeral, maybe there would be no funeral at all because they were too busy fighting.

It didn’t matter what happened after, that was not the point, anything good that came of this would be a secondary effect, right now, this was about her. She decided that a few practice cuts would be needed. She sliced the soft, springy skin near her inner elbow. The glass pressed down, and then the tension of her skin released itself, and it split open, like cutting dough, and left a deep wound on her arm. It seemed to take a while for the blood to flow, like her arm hadn’t noticed anything had changed. But when the blood came, it didn’t stop. She liked it like that. It rolled down her arm, towards her hand, and she knew that the glass would be sufficient for the job she would lay out for it. She appreciated the beauty of the cut, the blood. How perfect it looked against her pale skin. She followed the line it had taken, over past scars, birth marks, bruises, and followed it back to its source. A cut just like that in the right place would be enough, she thought. And prepared herself for it. She took another deep breath. The shouting at the door seemed to have stopped, but as soon as this thought came to her mind, the banging on the door began again. She knew this was it, the only way. She held the glass to her wrist, and thanked it in advanced for what it was about to do for her, told it she loved it, and told it that she would remember it forever. And after that, she pushed down and dragged it across the delicate skin of her wrist, straight away it began to bleed, almost squirting out, and it was fast, very fast, she marvelled at how amazing it felt, slowly her consciousness shrank, and death overcame her. She lay back on the bed, and as she died she looked at the ceiling. Her eyes followed the lines of the cracks, all the way to the door, and she swore, as she took her last breath, that she saw the walls fall away to another world. Her world, where she would be free.

Author's Note

ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes :)
critiques on writing style, the actual story and anything that comes to mind are welcomed :)

Reviews

[cartera]

Strong stuff.
Very well written. You write very well: not overusing adjectives or adverbs, and you maintained the voice in the protatagonist's head, although at the same time dropping just a little of the third person to move the story on: a very difficult thing to do. Often when not done properly it can jar the a whole piece.
It is very easy to overdramatize this situation, but the intensity of the despair comes over better when the writer can convey it with few words. Well well done.
Good luck for the future; I hope that you send stuff away to print outlets.