So this is very different than anything I've ever written, so I'm not really sure how it turned out. Since this is pretty dark, I should probably say that I'm actually a pretty happy and well-adjusted person. I just get pleasure from making fictional characters suffer.
Disclaimer1: I don't own any of this
Disclaimer2: Don't read if you have an allergy to angst
Michael Nielsen walked up the stairs to his daughter's room. She rarely slept in this late, and something didn't quite feel right. "Kelsi, time to get up! I made pancakes," he called from outside her door. No answer. He knocked, but there was still nothing.
Finally, he quietly opened the door. His breath immediately left him. He knew that she wasn't sleeping. Her sprawled body and the bottle of pills in her hand revealed this. Tears poured to his eyes, and he turned around, unable to bear the sight. Facing the door, he noticed that there was a note pinned to it, written on blank sheets of music. Without even reading at it, he knew what it was. He didn't know if he could handle reading it just yet, if ever. But he needed something to keep his eyes off of his daughter.
Picking it up, he noticed her curvy, calligraphic handwriting. "Even in death she's meticulous," he thought to himself bitterly.
I don't know when the music stopped. I thought it never would. Especially now that things were getting better, I thought that my problems were over. But your problems never really end, do they? Before, I was miserable because I thought I had no one, I thought I was alone. But then it seemed like something changed. It seemed like others actually cared about my existence, and it was nice. But did they really care? No. I had my moment in the spotlight. It was nice to have people who seemed to care. But then I was pushed back. Why did I think it would change?
I know that I always acted like other people's opinions didn't matter, and for a while they didn't. I was always okay with the blank stares that constantly met my eyes. I was okay because I knew that I could always take solace in myself, and in my music. But for a while, I thought I had found something more. Something that was beyond me or even beyond those 88 black and white keys. There was life behind the eyes of those strangers; sometimes they even seemed to be welcoming, accepting. Did they really want to be my friend? For a while I thought that they did. But then, no one cared anymore
Why did I think it would change?
I don't know how it happened, but slowly, those waves in the hallway turned back into glances that asked why I was taking up space. I went back to being the girl who hid behind her piano, afraid to emerge from her fortress of music, and the old fears that constantly plagued my mind returned, even stronger. I thought that I had gotten over those. I even was able to stand up to those who were once the worst to me (I don't want to die with spite, so you will remain unmentioned. You know who you are), and it seemed like even those people had hope for changing. But of course, they went back to their normal ways again, pushing me around to fulfill their own petty wants. And I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop them
Why did I think it would change?
But even then, I didn't give up hope, not quite. I still had my music, and as long as I had that, there was still hope. It was my last solace and the only thing that I could do to keep from going mad with loneliness and the powerless feeling that I knew would never go away. Even in my darkest times, I could temporarily lose my troubles with the help of the notes and lyrics that seemed to pour out of my mind. Born out of hopelessness, they gave me hope that maybe, someday, things really would change. But then, even that left me. I don't know how, I don't even know when. All I know is that the music that was once my only friend, was gone. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't write anything. It wasn't mere writer's block. It was a permanent end to all the hopes that I used to have. I thought it would pass. I thought the music would return, and cast out the dead feeling that was rampant in my fingers whenever I sat down at the piano bench. But now I know that it never will. And if I can't have that, I have no other choice. Living simply is no longer an option.
I'm sorry to my family, and to any friends that I may have, if they even exist. I truly am. I know that you'll take this hard. Please don't blame yourself, it has nothing to do with you.
I don't want to die. But I can't live.
Kelsi Nielsen.
Too dark? Not dark enough? Any comments/criticisms are greatly appreciated. I have an idea for Chad so I'm probably going to do one for him next, partially depending on how this is received.