NOTHINGNESS

Hey, I know that I should be working on my story Full Moon, but this is how I deal with writer's block… Enjoy!

Better to have loved, than to not have loved at all. Is it better to feel pain for loving, than feeling this emptiness?

I wanted to feel, instead of drowning in this vast sea of unfeeling. Pain must be better than this. There is nothing worse than to live a life void of all emotion. This wasn't living-it was barely surviving.

I didn't know how I could make these wounds disappear. They may not be seen, but they were as real as any broken limb. In fact, this wound-this hole- was worse than anything I had felt before.

I was in a terrifying nightmare. I was searching and searching until I no longer remembered what I was looking for. That state of amnesia was what brought the screams to my throat every single night.

I was alone-completely alone. And I would stay like that forever more. The one person I related to on the same level-gone. Every sole aspect of physical proof that he had existed-evaporated, besides me.

'It will be as if I never existed.' With that promise made, my existence had ceased as well. Sure, I still ate, breathed, moved, but I was vacant. How many ways can one heart be mangled, and still expected to beat? Love, life, meaning-gone, all gone, wiped away by a solitary word: no. I didn't want to keep surviving, what was the point?

Mentally, I was ready to die, but I wasn't suicidal. I was just waiting for my body to catch up with my mind.

Many a days did I go without knowing what his absence would bring. But now that I knew that I couldn't live, really live, without him. There was no purpose, no gravity holding me down to Earth-just nothingness.

I spent three months living in this wasteland called my life. Was there a way to actually feel again? If there was, I was determined to find it. Endlessly I looked and looked, drugs wouldn't do anything-in fact, they took all feeling away. As did my drug did to me.

I finally found my release, my feeling creator. I was waiting for the water to get warm in the shower when I saw them. Razors blades. Didn't I use them all the time? Why did it take me so long? But, would this work? It had to.

I stepped into the shower, holding the fine blade. I thought about where I should cut. I decided on something unimportant-my hand. I removed a single blade from the razor and held it over a blue vein in my hand. I pressed the blade down into my flesh. It didn't take much for the blood to flow out of my hand.

As I watched my own blood drip over my hand and arm, I felt something-pain. I wanted-as does a true masochist does- for more. Morbidly, I found the long faded scar on my arm.

It was a long faded pink line running from my wrist to the crease of my elbow. A scar from my disastrous 18th birthday party so many months ago, the representation of everything that had happened the terrible night…

The silver presents, the roses, opening the present, Edward's present, seeing the bloodlust in Jasper's eyes, in everyone's eyes…

I struggled to pull myself away from the memories, for they still hurt me me. I was rocking back and forth, back and forth. Clutching at my sides, trying futilely to hold myself together. Attempting to breathe, but not quite managing it. The very thing that I had forced my mind to never think about; filled my head. Edward. Just thinking his name ripped the hole even wider.

It was minutes before I could stop rocking, and stand up straight, to stop grasping at my sides. But when I finally did, it was a relief. I remembered what I was about to do, not thinking of the consequences.

I picked up the sharp blade that still held my blood upon it. I placed it parallel to my long-healed scar and pressed down. Hard.

I pressed down because of his apathetic interest, for every word, touch, kiss that had been a lie. It felt so good to finally fell something, even pain. I felt the emotional pain subside for a moment. I reveled in the temporary relief.

The water from my arm was making the blood drip onto the floor-staining it pink. I knew that I had to go to the Emergency Room and get this stiched up, but what was the point? I may not want to die, but I don't really care if I lived or died and there is a huge difference between them.

What the hell, why not? It's not like I'm going to ever really live again... That has been stolen from me...

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As was her life. The girl stood there not really alive. She watched her own life-blood trickle down onto the floor, uncaringly. Such a broken, shattered, anguished girl. How could one person, one man do this to her? It just wasn't fair….

She no longer cared about anything, just him. She was apathetic even as she watched herself die….