A/N: Hello. Here is a short one-shot I wrote. It is my first super angst filled story, so if I get everything wrong, I am very sorry. I tried. I think it's okay though... Well, it's ultimately you decision. Hope you enjoy.
Warning: This contains possible triggers, such as: death, depression and self-harm.
My hands shake with nervous anticipation. I impatiently glance at the clock, for what must be the 17th time, no scratch that, exactly 17th time, since class had begun. There are only five more minutes to go, and then I will be free of this hellhole. I unconsciously rub my wrists and tug at the edges of my long sleeves. Just four more minutes.
I can feel my resolve slipping; I need to get home, I need the relief. I could do this, I did it every day, but I still fill with this dreadful feeling every time before 3:30, when school would finally end. It is worse today. They called me freak, as usual, no surprise there, but someone mentioned Mum today. They knew that it was wrong, and completely inappropriate. No one should ever talk about her like that. Cancer deaths are meant to be a touchy subject, but apparently not today. I know why.
The 'leader' of the pact of idiots had gotten a particularly bad beating from his father the night before, and of course, as of the norm, he took it out on me. Once I said stupidly let something slip about his dad, he didn't understand how I knew, and called me a freak, then gave me, in turn, a particularly bad beating. It was a vicious circle. He didn't believe I could just know, just by looking at him. He didn't understand how easy it was for me, to observe. Mum used to say, when I'd come home crying, that they were just threaten by me, they couldn't fathom how someone could be so smart, and it scared them. Mum used to protect me.
Three, two, one. The bell rings, and the teacher begins to say something, dismissing the class, no point in listening. I get out of there as fast as I can. Maybe if I go fast enough, they won't catch me. I rush to my locker and quickly grab my things, stuffing it in my bag, not caring about the mess. I am nearly to the door, about to exit, to be free, when a menacing voice behind me calls, "Oi, Freak! Where do you think you're going?"
No, no, no. I do not look back, so close; I could make it to safety. I am out of the building, I can see the car waiting.
"Freak! I'm talking to you!" the same voice calls again. I quicken my stride. I am practically running now. I reach out for the car door handle and pull myself in, slamming the door behind me. The chauffer, my regular, gives me a questioning look, but my only response is, "Drive." And drive he does, far away, to the place that is meant to be home. I sigh with relief. I escaped. No bruises today. This one time, I escaped, but I do not expect to again, any time soon.
Finally, we arrive to our destination. He bids me goodbye and normally when I would of slipped him a fiver, because he was always good to me, today I couldn't have been bothered. I leave without saying a word, not even a nod.
Upon entering the house, I am greeted by empty silence. Of course I am. It has been years since my brother lived with me. He is seven years my senior, and had long ago gone to some Ivy League school to become some government official. Ever since our mother's death, the house has not been home, but a silent ghost of a reminder, of when I was happy. The only sounds you could ever hear were the bustle of the kitchen staff, or the occasional shouts of my father on some conference call, but that was only if he was here, which he normally wasn't, only on holidays and odd weekends. But, when he is here, he always on some conference call, with some important company CEO, or prime minster of somewhere. He is always drowned in work. He is always too busy for me. He was always gone, especially since Mum. It doesn't matter, though. I don't need him. What can he possible do for me? He doesn't care anyway. No one does.
It is always silent in this house, because I was the only one there, and tears always run silent as they roll down your face. My quiet sobs reach no one's ears.
I get upstairs as fast as I can, and immediately go to my private bathroom. I lock the door. No one is there to interrupt me, no one to walk in, but it makes me feel safe.
I set my bag down and take a moment to look at myself in the long mirror. I am pale, much too pale, and very skinny; apparently one must eat daily. I find it not to be so. My height surpasses most people my age, and I have somewhat of a willowy look about me. My dark curls are in their constant state of messiness, and I can see the fatigue in my face. My cheeks are hollow and my cheekbones, which are already sharp enough as it is, are far too prominent. I have dark bags under my eyes; they have been there for so long. My eyes are the real give away though. They look tired, so tired, like the fading eyes of an old man. They used to be bright and skeptical, full of curiosity, and knowledge. It isn't like that anymore; I am not like that anymore, not for a long time. This is not the picture of a healthy teenager. My stomach gives an uncomfortable twist and my mouth fills with a bitter taste. I cannot bear to look at myself for much longer. It hurts too much.
My hands are already starting to shake more violently, and I try, unsuccessfully, to compose myself, as I remove the lid of the toilet tank. I reach inside, past the winding pipes for what I am looking for. My fingers wrap around a small metal tin and I pull it onto my lap, now sitting on the cool bathroom tile.
I carefully open the box, to reveal a small penknife. I take it, gently, in one of my nervous hands, and just look at it for a moment, almost admiring it, before lowering it towards my arm. I, in a painfully slow movement, drag the sharp edge across my skin, watching it penetrate the soft tissue so easily, how breakable we are. I can feel the burning pain immediately, but it is almost dulled with the overpowering feeling of release. I do not look away from the small incision, as warm red liquid begins to seep from the thin line. This is my favorite part, to watch the body, the biology, the blood. Just at the sight of it, it loads a weight off my heavy shoulders. I know it is all psychological, that this is actually not good for me, but I cannot find myself to care, when this makes everything just feel… not so bad.
I am not an idiot, obviously. I cut near the crook of my elbow, far away from my large wrist veins. I am not stupid enough to bleed to death. It won't help me, and if I were to be unlucky enough to survive, for the doctors to save me within an inch of my life, then everyone would know. They would know what a freak I really am.
I draw the small knife again, and cut another line directly parallel to the first. I need more. The same pain returns, a bit stronger, but so does the lifting feeling, and I begin to feel slightly dizzy. I smile. This is as close as I can get to happy.
A/N: Hope that that was enjoyable on some level. Sorry if that possibly made you sad, but, to quote Doctor Who, 'it's happy for deep people.' Please review :)