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Internally

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No ever blamed me. No one ever pointed their fingers. No one ever laughed or said mean things. But no one ever knew; no one but me.

Should I have told them? Should I have let them blame me? Point their fingers? Laugh and mock? Should I have allowed myself to experience the pain that came along with the long healing process?

I still don't know the answer. I never will.

I will never be as strong as the mask I hide my tears behind. I will never be the girl I led everyone to believe I am. I will never be fearless. I will never be competitive. I will never fight – not without my mask. Never without my mask. Have I lost myself because of that painted layer blocking my true soul? Never. Never without my mask; never without my pain. You can't cover something if it's not there, if it's not remembered. You can't put on a mask if you have nothing to hide.

And all I have left are memories. Bitter memories of what was, what could have been, and the life I could have faced; could have had. Recollections that took everything I had and broke everything I am to just seal them away from prying eyes. Words their eyes sent to me as they tried to figure out my sudden silence; as they shattered the thin layer of protection I had around my heart. The glass fell; fell into a film of dust which yearned to sparkle in the light that it didn't live in. And the fine dusting that wanted to shine again was instantly covered in the thick crimson blanket and dyed. Soon it was mistaken for blood and washed away with the rest of my sins. Down, down ,down. Down the drain; only to be questioned and never to be denied.

Down.

Sinking through the grating; each part of me that fell off with every attempt I made to lift my head. I had let it go on and on and on. There was nothing inside me anymore. Nothing but the blood stained dust of glass. Nothing but the bleeding pain. Nothing but my own turmoil. A perfect storm of everything imperfect. Rejection. Betrayal. Hurt. Hurt that no one can possibly imagine. Hurt that everyone jokes about and that everyone covers with hilarity even though the mere thought sends them running. Hurt that led to this, to me doing this. To me have done that.

Done what? There was nothing I did wrong. Nothing I did to deserve that, to deserve this. And yet all that happened was another head held high and another falling to their knees. Another smirk lighting the eyes of the tainted and another tear bleeding down a raw cheek. Another twisted moment in this evil world. A moment no one saw; no one wanted to see it.

And there was only me.

Only me to wipe away my own tears. Only my arms encircled me at night as I tried to will myself into a painless dream. Only my own blood to internally bleed. My mask kept it all inside. And it was my choice to keep on the plastic. It covered my shame.

I had done nothing wrong. Why did I feel this way? So disconnected? All I wanted was to move passed it all, to forget; to never want to experience it again. I had thought that was the right path. I had thought it was what I wanted, what was best for me. And maybe it would have been if I had been smarter; if I had lost the girl behind the veil.

Life is as short as love's lost lies.

But this wasn't love. It never had been. It never was. It never will be. Never. Never. Never. Not with him. But my life was as short as this lost secret. As short as I wanted it to be. As short as my strength. As long as it took me to fall apart; to tear at my seams; to spill everything that was inside me and ruin everything that was out.

In the end, was it my fault?

If I would have had the courage to blur the lines between my masked clone and my weeping heart, would it have been different? Would it have been ok? Or would I have lost myself in the alias? Changed into something no one could love.

But he did love you. He never meant to hurt you. It was only the other. The other whose name you've long forgotten. Everything was forgotten in time. This pit I had allowed myself to fall into had no light, no room for memory. Only emotions. Only flashes. Only pain. Would he still love you even though he never really knew you? I hadn't had the time to figure it out. I hadn't wanted to figure it out. I just wanted everything to go away.

So I broke him. He was the paper I stab with my pencil, the window my baseball soared through, the deer I hit with my car. He didn't deserve it.

Why does life only happen to the innocent? The hardships, why do they only fall on the shoulders about to break from burden? Why do the new scars only appear on the wrists of those already crying reddened rain? Why can't the ones who frown find it in themselves to smile? The secrets, why do they always kill us inside? Can't there ever be anything easy in life? Anything that anyone could laugh at instead of shed a single drop of despair?

No one said that life was easy but they were wrong: life is easy. It's the people we encounter that make it hard. When did life force you to curl up in the corner of your bed and cower in fear? When did life make you put the piece of a broken mirror to your arm? When did life make you push and pull it? People are the victims. Persons are the enemies. Humans are the reason for all suffering. And everyone only blames themselves, not the ones who put them in this state. No one ever does that anymore. Did anyone ever do it?

I didn't. It was my fault at the time. And somehow, I was still at fault. I let him do this to me. I let it happen. I changed. I became a blurred reflection of who I used to be. I became one with my mask. I let myself shine in the spotlight. I let myself sit in the corner and stare. I let him change me. I let him break me. I let him. It was my fault.

Even when I was huddled under the cold spray of water, shivering and watching the shower floor be painted a sickly color, it was my doing. I could have stopped it all. I could have stopped it. But I wouldn't.

I wouldn't let them see the words hidden under layers of fabric. I wouldn't let them notice the tears fogging my vision. I wouldn't let him feel me flinch when he innocently held out his hand for me. I would never let him see the lies behind my smile when I rested my clammy hand into his. I thought that was what I needed ; to be blind like them, to forget and to love. In baseball you only get three strikes, and I had swung out, but was still swinging at the empty air, trying to redeem anything I had left.

But the game was over. I had lost. Everything. There was nothing left of me. Nothing. Not even a mask with soulless eyes staring through it. I was gone. And I couldn't be brought back.

I had deserved that cold dread of loneliness. I deserved it for what I did to them. I pulled the wool over their eyes. I lied to them. And I lied again. I became addicted to it. I became a pro at it. They never knew. They were never meant to know. And for that, the feeling of my own self trickling down my legs, my wrists, my back, was worth it. It was my punishment. Or so I had thought.

Punishments are supposed to hurt. Supposed to teach you a lesson. I had learned nothing. I had felt nothing. Nothing but release. Learned nothing except numbing. And I became that. I became a nothing. And I let that nothingness bleed until there that was what was inside of me.

No hope. No dreams. No future. No next breath.

Only the breath came. And it came again. And again. And again. It came without me wanting it too. It came back with a fresh wave of everything I had pushed out of my head, of everything I had dug this hole to escape from. And it kept coming back. Pulsing with each inhale and burning with the next exhale. It became clear that I wasn't going to heal, that I wasn't going to win. Nothing can't heal. Nothing can't win.

I was nothing. Nothing was who I was. Nothing was what I had. Nothing but myself. And I was nothing.

Nothing but a mess of trembling fingers when I rocked against the plain walls. Nothing but plastered on happiness. Nothing but a declining waistline. Nothing but the wordless scars littering my body. Nothing but the tattoo of a heart on my wrist that no one bother to ask about. Nothing but an uncared reminder that I could be loved, if not only by myself

But that reminder faded along with my memories when the blackness came. When I feel deeper into the pit. When I hit the ground, only to retain that falling feeling. You can't see black ink when nothing but inky blackness surrounds you.

I forgot about my mark. About my promise of a better tomorrow. I left it all behind. Behind with the girl who wore my mask. Behind the with cement block that anchored my name to this world. I had been tired of being too shallow to bleed it all away. So I went deeper. And deeper. And harder. And harder.

And I got what I wanted. I had received a painless dream.

But it all came back. Everything. The regrets. The ache. The guilt. Everything. And I couldn't even open my eyes to see their faces. I couldn't open my mouth to whisper my apologies, to tell them why. And I can still hear them, mourning for me, yelling my name as they too etch it on paper, onto their arms with pens, and drill my memory into their hearts.

It was my fault they felt this pain. My fault that I felt this pain. You don't need to lift a finger to be at blame. You only need to remain silent.

And as I left my lips peel against the duct tape, he won back his trophies. He triumphantly rubbed everything into my face. He even tried to do it again, but I would never sit back and let him do it. I would outrun him, outrun them all. I would run so fast that no one would see the tears frozen on my cheeks, frozen from the level of deadness inside.

No one saw it. No one saw me flinch when he yelled my name. No one saw the melting of my eyes when I played along with his little games. No one saw because I didn't want them too.

I was stupid. Wasn't I?

But I will never know.

They will never know.

Stella will be drowning in clueless sorrow when they find my body.

Kevin will be unable to take his eyes away from the sight.

Joe will burrow under his blankets, leaving everyone to wonder if he'll ever emerge again.

And Nick, my sweet Nicholas, he won't know what to do. His fingers will twitch as he holds the pencil over his coveted notebook, but no words will be written. His eyes will never let a single tear fall until he catches the picture of him and us together, laughing, our arms tightly wound around each other. He will wonder if I was haunted during that moment. If he had caused this.

And I will never be able to tell him otherwise.

All I could do was sit here and wait. Wait for them to walk into my bathroom. Would they first see the two words written on the wall? Would their eyes travel over the dripping letters in shock? Would they even be able to understand them? "Please forget."

Would they next turn their eyes down and know what they were going to see? Would their knees find the ground? Would they run from the room? Would they be rooted to floor as they took it all in? As they took me in? As they read the words on my exposed arms? Let it go. Useless. My fault. It's all my fault.

Would they ever understand the pool of dried crimson cracking underneath my slashed skin? Would they ever know why I chose to stare from unseeing eyes? Would they ever understand the words etched right above my heart? Never to be loved.

Would they see the tiny heart on my wrist and notice that I had torn it in half?

And what would the other see? Would he laugh at what he did to me? Would he get eaten by his own guilt? Would he finally tell them what I could not? Would he avenge me by taking matters into his own hands? Would he even care at all? Or would he just move on with his head slightly declined, making him miss the winning catch of the football or would he strikeout time after time?

I will never know.

I wasn't up there with them. I was down here in my pit. Alone and trapped. Nothing left of me. Nothing but their memories keeping me alive. Nothing but their sorrows covering me in tears. Nothing but what I did to them coming back to haunt me.

I thought I escaped. I thought I had made the right choice. I just wanted it all to end. I didn't want to be the photograph pressed against the shuddering chest of the man I had loved. Of the man who caused me to snap and run by trying to show how much he cared with a simple kiss. Of the man whom I wanted to marry. Who I wanted more than anything to just love me for me. But I could never show him me. And he made me show me, for that brief second before I could run. I shoved him away from me, yelling that I didn't want this; I didn't want him. And I ran. Unable to turn back.

Unable to stop the knife.

Unable to take my next breath.

Unable to live.

No one knew why I did it. No one knew why Nick blamed himself. Everyone knew why he etched my name where my own mark was. No one questioned why Nick Lucas got a tattoo of a girl's name on his left wrist. They all knew my story. They just didn't know why.

But they all knew my name.

They wrote it everywhere; at school, my locker, my desk, my trophies were displayed, my name hung from the ceiling, on every door and every corner, on every light post, on every newspaper – I was there.

"Please forget."

They never did.

Never.

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Chibiyu: There was a point to no funny(ish) A/N at the beginning to the story. I didn't want to give anything away or set the wrong mood. So I tried to make it obvious as to who is the narrator, what happened to her, and who did it to her without actually saying it aloud. Kudus to everyone who can get it.

DO NOT steal this story. It is based off a true story. DO NOT ask for the story. DO NOT pester me about this. YES the girl is real. YES she is still alive. YES she suffered like the narrator and is still suffering. I know you have questions, but I beg you to hold your tongue. I'm breaking a promise just by writing this.

Until Next Story.