Screaming.

A short, dark story that's probably going to get me put back into the psych ward.

The screaming. It never ended. Constantly, everyday, there was screaming. Not the kind of screaming that people can make. This screaming was so much worse. This screaming was in my head. It wasn't a pointless screaming, but screaming that constantly filled my head with thoughts of hopelessness, worthlessness, blood, and death.

At first it was just a thought, a filled bath tub, complete with the lifeless body of that small insignificant girl nobody bothered to remember the name of. Or maybe a bridge with a cold river underneath, waiting to catch me in it's dark embrace. Possibly even a small silver blade, calling my name with the promise of a salvation I couldn't get anywhere else. And then it turned to so much more. 

My mind turned to chaos and my body went numb. I'd do anything to feel something physically and to quiet my mind, the screaming. I gave into urges all too quickly, praying to a god I didn't believe in for a way out of the never ending hell that inhabited my mind, body and soul. But I soon figured out that nothing is that easy.

But part of me still had hope, and every now and then, I'd get so hopeful and I felt like I just had to find my purpose. So I tried harder and climber up higher than I was before, only to crash even harder when I fell back down.I tried and I tried but eventually I knew, my life was going in circles and I was trapped inside.

And then I began planning, I  gave everything away. "You seem so happy!" they'd say. "Because nothing lasts forever," I'd reply, "It'll all be over soon." And I seemed happy because I knew soon it would be better, my smile was fueled by the blissful thought of nothingness. Black, empty, emotionless. Death.

A few days later, I climbed to the top of a building with a paper and pen. I sat down, close to the edge, not fearing that I could fall off. Death didn't scare me. I wrote on down on the paper the last words I'd ever make. I wondered if anyone would notice, if anyone would care. Of course not, I thought. I wrote those last words with a smile on my face, but tears running down my face. I'd gotten so used to smiling a smile that everyone believed, because no one bothered to look at my eyes. My dead, cold, weary, tear-filled eyes. If anyone had ever cared, they'd have notice that I wasn't okay. They'd have done something, said something, tried  to help me in anyway.

But no one did because no one cared. 

And so I cried my tears alone for the last time, wishing to be happy. Wishing for someone to come running up the steps and cry out, "Stop! Don't do it, I need you, I want you, I love you, I care. You mean the world to me and I can't live without you." And I cried and I cried until eventually it dawned on me that that would never happen. I was worthless to everyone, a waste of space. Stupid girl, I thought. Stupid, silly little girl. You'll never be happy. So stop trying. 

Screaming, it never stopped screaming. Filling my head with thoughts that would have killed me if the inside wasn't already dead. I'm already dead on the inside, there's no point breathing anymore. And so I wiped my eyes, stepped up to the edge. And I closed my dead, bloodshot, swollen eyes, 

And just like that, I jumped.