Broken

A Story by spenderlou

2edgy4me

I feel broken. No, I am broken. Not broken in that a car stops working, or when a ring snaps.

I am more akin to a jigsaw puzzle, with a missing piece. Where once i was a whole being, rich and healthy in emotion, I feel as if some parts have become dull with apathy, and through this, sections of myself have simply ceased to exist. I am not alone, and yet we all feel alone. I like to call us outcasts.

I suppose the correct retort could be to refuse imperfection. Stand up, slinging these insecurities at the world that bestowed them to me, and exclaim, "I am whole!" But to make a response as loud, and as foolish, as that, demands a strong will, and a sound person. I am weak, whether grown or created in that fashion, and as such, I could not accept this.

Some simply see this loss, and see a scapegoat. Where there is nothing, nothing may be lost. A broken woman has no moral code, any and all reason to dissuade wickedness is lost. This is where the stealing, and murder, and rape come from. Not from people set out to cause harm, but from those who have been hurt.

Others could just give up hope, and eventually off themselves, many rather ungracefully. This leaves those around them in tatters, tarnishing their legacy. Suicide is an ugly thing, and if i had my way it would not be possible in a human's eye. A sort of Asimov rule, applied to humans. But unfortunately, it is an option. Many take advantage of it.

But I? I refuse to do such things. I will not lie, I will not be immoral, and will not die. Not out of some noble and just cause. Not even through virtue of my own conscious. I believe that one day, no matter how much you had given up, and forgotten, you may yet find your puzzle piece. I move on, sometimes a bit worse, sometimes a bit better, because I possess something that most of the outcasts do not.

Hope.