The characters belong to Stephanie Meyers. Idea was my own. This story is very personal to me and I hope you all give it a chance and review some to tell me what you think. The idea isn't that original but the feelings put into it are. I hope you enjoy it and I promise it won't be this depressing throughout the whole story. :) Love H.
I wake up every morning wondering how I'm going to make it through another day. There have been some days where I would refuse to make any sort of movement. I'd lie in my own filth just to cry and think about how depressed I have become; it's quite pathetic. I lie there on my worn mattress, soaking my flattened pillow with my salty tears and remember the past. Why do I torture myself? I can't answer that question. Maybe I'm trying to force myself to face what has happened instead of holding it in and letting it fester.
My roommate, Karol, has been quite a dear having only known me for two months now. She happily supplies me with all the booze my petite form can hold. A collection of Chardonnay and Tequila bottles are lining my closet floor. My psychiatrist keeps me painfully numb with all of the Xanax she prescribes for me. I'm starting to think she would rather feed me pills than actually listen to my problems; I can't blame her. My life is completely hollow, void of all the light and passion it once thrived on so much. This internal death; this soulless life of mine has no purpose.
I can't feel the rain or the biting cold that covers my entire body like a blanket of ice each time I walk out of my apartment. All of the chatter of the people and the sound of the bus stopping then driving as it comes to every bus stop no longer bothers me like it once did. The clanking of my own heels against the pavement, as I walk to the café where I work, doesn't bring forth any self-consciousness that would normally turn my pale cheeks a bright red.
My drab, brown hair hangs, limply, around my face. I wonder if your emotions affect your body and hair, too because I find that my hair looks about as dead as I feel. Sometimes I doll myself up a little bit as some sort of therapy. Why look as bad as you feel all of the time? Every day I apply thick black eyeliner around my dull, brown eyes just to disguise the red rings around them from the tears the night before. It's easier to keep from being questioned that way. No matter what, though, I still look completely dead and miserable.
I'm not happy. I want so desperately to be happy again. That's the thought I start my day with. Some people would say to stop moping and do something about it but it's really not that simple. How do you get back your heart and soul when it still belongs to the one person that doesn't exist anymore?