I watched as she fell to the ground, her warm blood cascading down around me like a red rain. Her body, now, nothing more than a blemish on the road.

They would say she was sick, demented, possessed to have done it.

But that wasn't it.

It was stress, depression, and people.

People, who saw her smiles, those wonderfully fake smiles, and chose not to ask. Not to say "Can I help?" "Do you need someone?" "What can I do?" Or tell her "I'm here." "I'll listen." "Everything will be ok."

Everything will be ok…that's all she wanted, everything to be ok.

But it wasn't, and she was scared. Scared of the disappointment, the shame, and the failure.

People did ask, "Are you ok?" when they saw her wrists. Her wrists, the betrayers of her façade, showing only a fraction of her inner battle. When they asked they accepted her pitiful excuses, they knew she was in pain but chose not to be burdened by it.

Those wrists, those words.

She wanted to scream till her throat was raw and bloodied, till she could no long speak or make a recognizable sound. She wanted people to know there was a beast eating her from the inside out, making her hollow, to know that the beast was she.

But she could not.

Pride:

-The downfall of man.

Fear:

-The companion of Pride.

She did not want people to know the evil that was inside her, the constant dark, grotesque, evil thoughts that surrounded her.

No.

No one would know, no one would ever know. Even after she was gone, they would not know.

She would never tell.

So here I stand, watching as she falls to the ground, listening as her body hitting with a sickening snap, knowing she will become no more than a blemish on the Earth, soon to be washed away.

I watched as she fell.

I watched as she hit.

I watched as she died.

And gradually I feel myself drift away from this scene. Slowly moving job here is done. Her death has been recorded, this sad girl becoming no more than a number on my chart. Walking away as thoughts of the girl disappear. I move on, to the next one. To the next unhappy girl or troubled boy, to the next death. Never getting attached or involved. No matter how much I want too.

I move on.

I must. I must.

For this is the life of a grim reaper.