Every story has an END,
She had always been quiet, a wispy presence lingering in the corner of the room.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
Alone.
But it wasn't necessarily her fault for being so tight-lipped. That she was overwhelmingly shy, that she only opened up to a few friends in her lifetime.
The truth is, the funniest people have it worse in life.
Like the boy in her Science class who lives in an apartment with his single mother that barely makes enough to support them everyday.
Like the girl in Math who was abandoned by her parents at an orphanage and was adopted by a strict, elderly couple.
Like the smiling jokester who's older brother got cancer and could only watch as his whole family crumbled before his eyes.
The truth is, they're the fragile ones, with hearts made of the most delicate of glass. That past their laughter is a pit, a void, an endless sucking emotion that devours them from inside out. That sometimes, it all gets too much and they break down crying in the darkness of their rooms for hours upon hours, desperately wishing and screaming for someone, anyone, to help them, to comfort them, to save them from their lives, to love them.
You wonder why people commit suicide? It's when they finally reach that point where they can't stand it anymore. When anything seemed better than what they were dealing with.
I can bet you that they had at least once, once, lifted a blade to their wrist or neck or head-and just wondered if the grass really was greener on the other side. But in the end, they were too scared. Scared of what? The pain, maybe. The despair of watching the world black out. The agony of knowing that no one had been there to catch them as they fell. Or maybe, the fear that the darkness ahead would be worse than the darkness now.
But this wasn't about the beautiful and the damned.
This, was about beaten show dogs praised for excellence, treated as nothing more than objects of reputation.
This was about a cage, a kennel, in which she could only rattle the bars of, too fearful to wail.
It was of oppression and contradictions, hate and fear and hate and fear and sadness sadness sadness.
It was of silent tears into pillows. Bruises and near perfect report cards. Bitterness and words not spoken to humans. Being an imperfect creation. Being unable to speak. Binding wills and tiny drops of blood onto wrinkled letters that would never get sent.
Closing her eyes, the girl leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window.
She was tired. It had been another day of performing. Scrutinized and judged. Empty praises from people that never would care.
The rum of the car soothed her a little. It was night, and while she could still smell faint traces of alcohol from the dark figure in the driver's seat, she knew that there would be no more trouble for the rest of the night. She would be able to take a short reprise until the next day.
Above, the clouds roared like a mighty lion, angry grays sky beautiful in a sort of ferocious way. She felt the thunder down to her very core.
Pit...pat…
Rain on the roof, tapping tin like an inquisitive question.
She gave no reply, to which it seemed to get angry.
The drops got faster, more hurried, more harsh. Her eyes slid open to look out the window, but all that crowded her vision was the splattering white of a storm too harsh.
-and all of a sudden, it was a hurricane.
Nothing could be seen past a foot of the windows as rain pelted the car with a scream of vengeance, the road was slippery with terror, emotions were quickly rising, and her sister wouldn't stop screaming that ringing pitch in her ear-
Lightning split the sky.
In her whole fifteen years of existing, Cecilio had never felt as much pain as she did that one day. It was fire searing up her chest, down her legs, cracking all her bones and burning her heart into a tiny, shriveled, charcoal crisp. Nothing seemed to comprehend in her mind except the pure agony.
She saw red, then white, then blue, green, orange, yellow-
until everything finally went dark.
Every story has an END,
But in life, every END is just a new beginning.