She is silent. Dangerously quiet, tense fingertips jiggling a pencil with spastic insistence. Open notebook displays a written note of sorts. It isn’t enough, somehow. Isn’t enough to just say it, simply write a few words and walk into a new chapter. She tries to explain. With a few final scratchings of pencil to paper, she sets it down, moving away, dark brown eyes glancing around the room for long moments, a caressing, fleeting look over her home for so many years.
Dear Diary…
Her tongue touches upon flushed lips, light skin contrasting violently with near-black hair. Sharp eyes are coldly pessimistic, impersonally cynical in the face of the world. The lithe body of a gymnast is made realistic by scarred wrists, hands, ankles…in fact, any revealed skin holds at least one scar, straight touches of white tissue.
This is my goodbye letter to the world, my farewell to this earth of pain, abuse, and murder. No one dies a virgin. Life f***s us all. For kids like me, we’re raped as soon as something goes wrong. There’s misery and grief, bruises and blood, pain self-inflicted and otherwise. Oh, it wasn’t always like this. To every scar there’s a story, to every razor blade, a memory, and to every death, a reason.
She bites that same rosy lip, near-perfect teeth coming into view as she spares another peek around the room, taking deep breaths to calm nerves already frazzled by a desolate day at school. There is nothing but depression at home, nothing but derision at that hell hole called school.
Do you know how I feel? Of course not. No one does, no one ever did. There’s more to my self destructive ways than anyone ever bothered to realize. They look at me, see a teen, and look away without bothering to dig beneath this surface. I’ve been to shrinks, talked through my supposed ‘problems’, whispered out lies to appease their secret-searching vigilance. None of them ever went farther than saying, “Talking will help,” before shoving me off on another of their colleagues.
She twitches, visibly, already picturing the results of her night’s plans. The girl moves with surprising grace, slender legs stretching sock-covered feet to bring her to the bedroom door. A dimly lit hallway stretches before her, branching in two directions. She takes the one off to the right, and comes to a living room. Photos scatter the various flat areas…but none are of the girl. They are, however, of one who is so similar it’s frightening.
At least she’s dead, that b***h who made me lose it all. I hated her as much as I loved her. Twisted idolization. The ultimate sibling rivalry. Hell, how could I not look up to her? Three years older and perfect, in everyone’s eyes. Except mine. Stupid b***h. Mom, if you’re reading this, I hope you know the truth. It’s as much your fault as her’s. She was wasted. Maybe it was her first time trying to drink, it doesn’t matter. As usual, the ‘good girl’ was smart enough to do the right thing, or at least something semi-right. She called me, her little sister, only 14 years old. She should’ve known better. I didn’t know how to drive. Head-on collision.
She smirks slightly, taking her time going around the room and putting each picture frame with the face down, so the photo is no longer showing. Her mouth forms words as she circles the large room. Dirty words, swear words, words of hate and disdain. Each picture is set down. Except for one, which she leaves as is. It’s by far more recent than the others.
She died. I lived. And from that day on, my life was hell. Mom, it’s all your f*****g fault. She was the b***h, now you are. You blamed me for her death. It wasn’t my fault! It was an accident. You think I didn’t beat myself up enough without your f*****g contempt, your glares and lectures?
A sudden frown forms and she punches the picture frame, shattering the glass and cutting open her knuckles. With fury in her eyes she creeps back down the hallway to her room, furnished in variants of blues and whites. It’s a whimsical room, full of books and luxurious cushions. But she doesn’t bother to throw herself down and into a story. Scrambling through the pillows with an impulsive fervor, she grabs a shoebox from beneath a large pile, obviously put there to hide. She opens the box, touches what’s inside, and smiles.
Oh, how good it felt, that razor blade. Wrists were the start, easy to get at. Easy to hide in chilly Minnesota. The first slice was for release. The second slice was for pain. The third was for blood. Two months after my dead sibling’s funeral and I was hooked almost immediately. I’ve heard people say “Well, I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think I ever could.” And I always just look at them and smile. B******s and skanks. They never really thought about it. I should know. It’s barely a step from thinking to doing, and it’s so hard to not take that step. And it’s impossible to walk away.
She pulls it out, the weapon of her self-destruction. An adoring glance is spared on it before she looks away, finding her eyes drawn to the wall, a collage of smiling faces. Her friends, what few she has left. The more recent the picture, the rarer the chance she herself is in it. With a frown she fingers the blade, unknowingly cutting through the flesh on her right palm.
Fools. Idiots. That’s all they are. Screw them. Let them f**k with boys and homework. I skipped that s**t to be at home and shave off just a little more of my flesh. It may have begun with the wrists, but as I matured, so did my self-mutilation. Shoulders, legs, arms, stomach. There’s no part of me that’s unscarred.
A single tear flows down her face, glistening in the light like a jeweled pendant of unknown origin. And as it shines, she runs the razor over her wrist. Skin parts like a piece of paper being cut. She stares at it, almost with expectation, but frowns lightly when only a bit of blood wells up. Not enough, never enough. The pain is barely there, barely adequate to startle her out of her thoughts.
You can’t feel what I’m feeling. You can’t know what I know. There’s no heart or soul inside. They died along with my perfect b***h-sister. I am unfeeling, empty. Pain is the only thing which comes close to filling this damned void.
Her hand plays with the blade for only a moment before she draws it again, this time harder, against her left wrist. Blood rushes out, eager to be free from its fleshy prison. She smiles, nearly hysterical with her need for any sort of release. Her right hand touches the blood, wiping it up, bringing it to an eagerly-grasping tongue.
The blood is like a relish, just a little hint of the pleasure behind my suicidal tendencies. I used to just wipe it away, the crimson flow that was my only sign of a heart. I’ve learned better than to waste such a precious commodity. The once-annoying seepage has become more like a sustenance to this hellish pool of lies I call my life.
Another slice, this one right where a scar had been previously. They’d never discover the mark beneath…but at least they’d see the most recent success of her self obliteration. She stands up for a moment, letting the blood drip unheeded onto the pillows, and sitting instead on her bed. It is as of yet unmarred by her little fetish. It wouldn’t likely stay that way for long.
There’s a rise in teen suicide. I don’t know why, I couldn’t care less. All I know is that I’m about to be just another statistic. One more number to be counted and tallied. I wonder who will find me. Probably Mom. She’ll be worried when I miss supper. A locked door and silence will answer her useless calls.
A door slams; she ignores it until a knocking interrupts her quest. The girl’s name is called. She barely bothers to reply at the inquiry of hunger, ignoring the ravaging of her body to instead focus on the ravaging of her soul. It’ll be hours before a second knock comes. She has time, and she knows it.
If I get what I want, by then I’ll be dead to this world. Literally, and in all ways possible. Maybe she’ll scream. More likely, she’ll faint or go into shock. She never did like blood. Will my body fall onto the floor, or will my last resting place be my bed? They never tell you those sorts of things when they talk at funerals or in the news. I hope they put me in long sleeves.
With a final grimace and no hesitation, she digs the blade deep into the large vein on her right wrist, between the two cartilage humps of flesh. It bleeds almost immediately, and she smiles as she pushes harder, brutally piercing the vein. With a growing ecstasy, she slides the razor all the way up her arm to her elbow, and then through the big vein in her bicep. It drips, as soundless as the girl herself. She grins with satisfaction before doing the same to the other arm…it takes but moments for her bed to be soaking up the results of her perverted bliss.
I hope you know the truth, b***h-mother. You deserve this…to find your daughter’s bloody body next to a razor. I hope you see the wounds and know what you did to me. You and my sister. I loved you, once. I worshipped you, once. It’s all gone now. I did nothing to deserve how I was treated after that w***e died. You killed my spirit, broke it in half. This is all your f*****g fault, don’t bother blaming it on anyone else.
She lies down, her arms outspread like an eagle’s wings. A smile lingers on her lips as one hand falls over the side of the bed to let a crimson flow funnel down it, running along her undamaged middle finger to drip onto the cream-colored carpeting that her mother had so happily wasted her money on. A final contempt for the woman she has learned to hate.
I only wrote this to say goodbye, to tell you the reason behind why I did it. I suppose this could be called my suicide-note. Instead, why don’t you call it my life note? It tells the truth of how my life has been in the last few months and years. And what I’ve been thinking about. Its almost like just another diary entry, although maybe a bit of a crude version. With one final inhale, she lets enough blood drain out that she has no spirit left. The girl dies with as little fuss as she lived, silence haunting her bedroom until her mother comes to ask her why she skipped supper. The touch of a paperclip is enough to unlock the door. Her mom looks, blinks, and screams.
I had no choice, can’t you see?! It was either this or I wait a bit longer and try to overdose. That’s not an exact enough science for me. Plus, what kind of statement would that leave? Almost none. The blood will prove I was serious…Let them search my body, see the rest of the scars, read my diary, know my story.
Her mom runs for the phone, calls 911 like a good girl scout. But it’s too late to save the girl. Her final breaths were taken half an hour before the phone call goes, and her mom starts to cry, tears dripping as she runs to her daughter’s bloody body. She sees the wounds and hurries to the bathroom, puking out what seems to be a thousand meals.
I don’t care anymore, don’t care about anything. Its time for me to go, it’s my time to leave this earth. I’m not wanted here anymore. I wrote this only to say goodbye. The results are ten times more than I expected. So I say it now. Goodbye and farewell. I loved life at one point…but death has been tugging at my heart for far too long. It’s about time I gave in.
They take away the body. Days later the girl is laid to rest. Her mother sits by the grave, and day by day, takes the time to investigate what was on her daughter’s mind. And she cries, and she sighs, and inside, she dies. She stops at the end of each page, going from paragraph to paragraph as time passes and tears fall. And finally comes the hour when she reaches the last page in the diary, the page that holds only three words.
Oh, Sweet Surrender.
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