Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi.
This is VERY dark. This is in the mind of Clare and it's like the voice in her mind. I love Clare and what I say in here is not me bashing her.
You say that you're fine.
You smile and laugh and despite what people think; you are quite the liar. Oh, you're fantastic at it. They come out of your sweet candy lips as if you're exhaling. These white lies tie together and form one big lie that is even bigger than you could ever imagine.
Inhale.
Lie.
Inhale.
Lie.
It's an automatic thing for you. It's become your daily life and you are drowning in it. Drowning. Drowning like you did when you were little, but your sister and mother pulled you out in no time. But now, you scream for help; but no one comes. They all stare and whisper. You've found the definition of being alone and actually, in all honesty, you don't mind the solitude. It's soothing. It's reassuring. People won't judge you for what you say, because you're by yourself. It's a beautiful plan for one like you.
You- You're oh so niave and oh so innocent, but you have thoughts that would make people gasp.
You- Oh, please. You don't know who you are. Don't try to define yourself. You'll get nowhere.
She says that you're boring. She plays Clara in the play and she makes it known that Clara is boring and whiny. And you can't help but think about what he thinks. Does he think that you're whiny? Does he think that you're so full of yourself? Has he gotten over you and over everything you've done together? Oh. These thoughts are circling around your head and you try to bat these thoughts out of your mixed up mind, but it's becoming a challenge. Because you know that she's better than you. You know that she wears cat ears and talks dreamily; as if she just smoked a joint. She's everything that the boy could want-cat ears and all-and you're nothing. You're the dirt on his shoes and everyone hates you.
You know this, Clare Edwards. You can't deny that these thoughts run through your body and travel down your spine. Everyone knows that it does. Everyone sees how you look at Elijah Goldsworthy. Oh, but you can't help it. Because you can't stop thinking about those late night urban adventures. When he'd show you his world and you'd gasp because your world used to consist of studying and then, oh look, more studying. But this boy opened up your eyes.
But. Oh no. Your eyes are now closed. You're in the dark. You're screaming for help. Your throat hurts and your eyes are watering and you are alone. And this time, you don't like the solitude. You're in a dark and scary place.
Welcome to hell, Clare Edwards.
Enjoy your stay.
.
.
His name is Jake. He was that obnoxious child that used to throw dead frogs at you. Charming, isn't he? But now, you notice that, hey, he actually is quite the charmer. He's easy-going and whenever he speaks, you want to pounce on him. Because his lips look so red and inviting and they whisper to you. They tell you to sin and to forget about that very special promise that sits on your dainty little finger.
What to do, Clare Edwards, what to do.
There are so many options, but when you kiss him, you feel nothing but that lust that your mother told you was bad. But who cares, right? Because she's out hooking up with guys of the night. She's sinning. And so can you.
So this boy; Jake Martin, is actually a nice fellow. He holds your bag and walks you to class. And-oh my god!-he doesn't know who Chuck Palahniuk is. In fact, very recently, he asked you if Chuck Palahniuk was something dirty. You had to kindly say no and proceed to tell him that he was an author.
That was strike one for Jake Martin. Because as he talks about carpentry, you think about those late nights when the only thing heard was his hush voice in your ear. What did he used to say, Clare? Hm? Oh. Right.
I love you.
Remember those days, Clare Edwards? Of course you do! You just don't want to admit it. But don't worry. It'll be your dirty secret.
Strike two for the young man falling in love with you? It's the way he eats. He shovels bite after bite into his wide mouth and you feel your appetite disappear when you watch him. He's like an animal. And you feel guilty that this is strike two. Are you that shallow? Are you that desperate to find an excuse to break up with him?
Tsk, tsk, Clare Edwards. And people called you saint. But, you're so judgemental!
What was strike three again? Hm? Oh, yes. Strike three was the way he dressed. It gave you a splitting headache that made you want to smack your head against the wooden tables that he made. The plaid became something that you despised. Isn't that right? Don't you almost puke every time you see someone wearing plaid? Don't you shiver with something that resembles guilt.
No wonder he called you a bitch when you broke up with him.
You're growing up, Clare Edwards. And you're losing every last part of you.
.
.
She's nuzzled into his arm and he's petting her and you laugh bitterly. Because she's wearing her cat ears. And he's petting her.
Maybe it sounded funnier in your head. Who knows. You're crazy anyway.
You watch him with a stare that could kill. Your eyes are boring into his head and you honestly want to knock that girl out of his arms. And then you notice that she's wearing a heart cardigan, a one much like yours. This one is the same as yours and you feel your heart race with hope and-.
How cute. They're kissing, Clare Edwards. You see his tongue snake into her mouth and you can hear her moan.
That was once you. Do you remember that? Ah, you do. Because why else are you shaking? Why else are those pathetic tears crawling down your cheeks? No answer? Hm? You let a quiet squawk when they cling onto each other. But that's not the worst thing. There's something else that makes you want to die right on the spot. Death seems wonderful at this point and you can't deny that. What would the people at your church say, though? Would they say that you were bound to go to hell if you confessed what you wanted to do with that knife at home?
You try to remember what that woman said all those years ago. What was it? It was something that you used to repeat, even though you had no idea what it truly meant. The woman used to say, "Suicide is a permanent solution for a temporary problem." You used to preach that and you used to stick your nose up at the suicide rate. What would your younger self say? Oh, she'd probably stick her nose up at you.
The kissing couple-who are practically having sex in front of you(lovely, isn't it?)-are sitting on "The Bench". Do you see the irony? Do you see your name scrawled into the wood of the bench? And, oh look, if you look closer, his name is right next to yours! And what's that wrapped around your names? A heart? How sweet.
And now, you walk. The image of dying is calling you. My oh my, it knows your weaknesses. It sees everything you've tried to hide. It sees the pain you've kept hidden from everyone.
You're all alone, Clare Edwards. And the darkness has you.
And it's not letting go.
.
.
You find yourself playing a game with yourself. You're trying to guess when you became so pathetic. It's a hard game, because you're beginning to think that you were always so pathetic. You're disgusting.
But the water feels good around your ankles. The water is cold. It's oh so cold but you don't mind, because what the hell, you're numb. And for the first time in months, you have a warm feeling in your gut. And you can't help but think that it's because the water is so vast and deep. So very, very deep, Clare Edwards.
And that excites you more than it should. Your dirty secret is going to become well known soon enough.
Who do you think will tell your parents? If they ever find you, that is. Will they care? What will everyone say about Saint Clare? That she offed herself by drowning in the bitter cold water? What will he think? Will he continue to kiss the girl with cat ears and a very familiar cardigan? Will he love her with a love that he promised to only love you with? Hm? For someone so smart, you have no answers.
The water is calling you, Clare Edwards. It's whispering your name and it hears your heart beating in tune to the waves crashing. It knows that it owns your weak soul. It owns your heart and mind and body. Face it. You're nothing. You're nothing but a corpse. You're nothing but a corpse that somehow moves. The world would be better off without you and you know it. Oh, you know it. It's in your face and it's haunting your breath.
When you start to trudge into the water, you can't help but think of that time when you were little. When you charged into the water with a light and open heart. But the wave snatched you and pulled you under. You were sure that death was going to claim you when that happened. But hands grabbed you and pulled you up. And you were safe. You were brought back to safety by your family.
But now, you don't have a family, do you? They all have let you to fend for yourself. Oh no, they left you in the bitter world without anything. Your mom is out hooking up and your dad rarely returns your phone calls. Darcy-that's your sister, in case you don't remember her-hasn't visited in how many years? She doesn't need you. She has other people now.
No one needs you.
You're getting deeper. And excitement fills your body. The water is turning your skin cold but you know that it will all be over soon. Soon, you'll be blue from death. And you won't feel a thing. Anticipation fills your throat and a laugh bubbles up. You feel giddy and even that's pathetic, but right now, you don't even care. Because you're about to say goodbye to the world.
The world doesn't care about you.
You're having trouble with walking now. It's becoming too deep and you sigh with pleasure. You can almost touch your death. It's exciting. It's beautiful. And you know that this is the only thing that you could ever do right. You do everything else wrong. You're a failure. And that's why you let yourself plunge into the water. Your body is trying to bob you back up, because your body can't seem to realize that the world would be better off without you. And your lungs attack too. All you feel is fire and pain and everything under the sun. But it feels so good. It proves to you that you're alive, but in no time, you'll be dead.
You almost expect hands to grab you. You feel like a child again. And you sink lower, you feel your heart open and become lighter. And you try to swim up, because maybe you'll feel like that once you reach the surface. But the water has you. The darkness is bringing you down. Can't you hear the laughing of the darkness? It's laughing because it took another poor soul. And to be honest, once again, you almost expect a pair of hands to grab you and pull you to safety.
So naive. So weak. No one wants you. Just the darkness. And it'll take anybody. So you sink lower and lower and everything is slipping away. Say your goodbye's. You're never coming back.
Welcome to hell, Clare Edwards.
I know. I'm sorry. I just wrote this and I read it over and aerhsej. It's so depressing!
Review, please? :)