A/N: I honestly felt like skipping PULL this week just because I feel really, really crappy. School work, a personal problem, and lack of inspiration have left me ready to just shoot myself. I even already messaged Bookaholic711 to tell her that I wouldn't be able to do it.
But I came home from school, listened to about half of "Little Mary" by Vanessa Carlton, and was like "Screw it. I promised I would myself that I would do this the whole damn time." So I'm writing. And I know the person this is directed to probably won't ever read this, but I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry.
Just to clarify, this is Zelda. I just didn't want to write her name. And the people I had in mind for "they" were Asa, Manfred, Idith, and Inez. Don't know why, but I did.
Disclaimer: Do I even need to disclaim anything?
She doesn't know what she's waiting for. Actually, she does.
She's waiting for a sign to figure out what the hell to do.
She knows she needs to apologize, but how? She can't bring herself to write an e-mail, or a text message, or even a freaking note. Any way seems fake to her unless it's said from her mouth straight into their ears. But how? They won't listen, they're gone, and she's lost them. How long? For today? Tomorrow? The rest of forever?
God forbid the last one, no matter how much she deserves it. She made a mistake and she was paying for it, badly. They all know. She knows their faces so easily, even though she didn't see them. She can easily picture the shock and the anger and the disappointment on their faces and, God, she hates herself at that moment. She's been doing that a lot lately, now that she thinks about it; hating herself, that is.
She didn't mean to hurt anyone. She just wanted to know. After all, if it involves her somehow, she deserves an answer, right? Right?
She doesn't think it'll stop and she looks over at the desk and there it is. She sees a pencil and she remembers that time when she was twelve and she considered stabbing herself with it. She didn't know why she did it then, she only remembers looking at it for a second, then staring at herself in the mirror while contemplating it and she told herself she wouldn't [and she kept staring into her own eyes, to convince-convince-convince herself] and her left wrist hurt and she looked down. She had the pencil in her right hand and her left wrist had a small lead mark on it.
She swore to herself that she wouldn't do it again.
She wore long sleeves the next day and didn't lift them up for anything. She was too ashamed to even consider it.
She tries to talk to everyone, but she can't. They avoid her and she just wants to make thing right, but she can't because they, in all honesty, don't want to talk to her anyway. She doesn't exactly blame them.
She remembers when she told someone herself. Their mood changed so instantly, it scared her, and she did not get scared easily. The look of shock and disappointment from them and how their voice got so much quieter and that's when she realized just how bad she screwed up. And that's just another person that's added to a list of people she didn't want to lose but did anyway.
That list was getting a little too [much too] long for her liking.
And if she's honest with herself, she does wants to fix things, but she's not trying hard enough. She's too scared to do anything. She's can't even look at them without breaking down inside. If she tried to speak to them, she's scared she'd make thing so much worse and she can't handle that. She's so disgusted with herself that she can't at herself in the mirror without wanting to punch it or throw a book, her phone, her lamp, something, anything at it.
Nobody notices that she doesn't eat at breakfast that day. Nor did she eat during lunch. She didn't even bother showing up to dinner, and was already in the King's Room when it ended.
One of them wants to talk to her and she can't handle it. So she turns and runs, because she's too damn scared of what they're going to say to her because she doesn't need [nor does she want] to remember the fact that she's lost them all.
But it doesn't matter. They won't care. All they care is being hard on her because she hurt them and she won't do anything to stop it because she damn right deserves whatever they say to her and more and God, she is such a coward because even thought she knows it and she accepts it, but she can't carry through with it. She runs up to the abandoned Art tower and barricades the door and just cries and cries and cries and mumbles to herself to the point where she's near hysterical and wonders if they were being too hard on her [she doesn't care because she knows she deserves it] and she keeps repeating the same thing to herself.
[Coward, coward, coward]
They don't find her in that room, but that's probably because they don't bother look. She can't figure out what hurts more.
She writes a lot. Poems, stories, songs, letters; just about anything, really. But mostly poems. They're the least complicated, and they're the easiest way she can convey her feelings. The pain and the hurt and the guilt and the regret and the anger; they're all in there.
She directs it all at herself. She brought the pain on herself [and on them], she hurt herself [and them], she is the guilty one, she regrets what she did, she is angry at herself [and so are they] for what she did.
She hates herself.
She prays no one ever finds her writing, because she needs it to survive. It's her lifeline and if anyone finds it, then she's screwed because they'll take her away from it but she can't because she knows it's the only thing that'll never leave her.
The writing doesn't need to understand her. It's just there so she can release it all and it can't do anything. So she sits herself down, careful not to looks herself in the mirror, and she writes about the churning feeling in her stomach and the constant need to puke and how her head's always spinning and the fact that she won't stop crying (which is why her papers are always so wet) and how her closet is full of long-sleeved shirts because of the pencil marks on her arms and how she's lost so much weight because she's never hungry anymore and of her thoughts.
Her thoughts are the only thing she likes about herself, even if they are about running away from her problems. They'd make everyone happy, right?
That's when she realizes something.
She needs to act on them.
Her parents find her in room with a red-stained manila folder that contains all her writing topped with a red-stained sticky-note beside her.
I'm sorry I hurt you.
I'm sorry I couldn't fix it.
I'm sorry I was coward.
She looks down from Heaven and thinks it's bittersweet how they defend her now by saying she left for university. No, she's actually gone for good. She spiraled downward and this is what it got her.
No one's happy anymore.
A/N: My situation is most likely (hopefully) going to turn out a lot different, but I still needed to write this.
Word Count: 1, 120
Time Posted: Between 5:30 – 5:45 PM
- May