in that Pain

She sat, in the darkness. Thoughts going through her mind. And even though those thoughts had been bothering her so much, she could never find the right words to truly express it. Nor the ears that she knew would listen. But would it really matter anyways? Would talking about it make her feel any better? Would it take away the pain or guilt? Would it take away the shame?

She sobbed, in the darkness. Understanding that nothing in the past would ever change. She mourned the loss of her family and friends. Knowing that even though all of them were still there, in most ways, they weren’t. She mourned the loss of love. Something, someone she truly believed in. Always doubting if she’d ever be able to believe the way she did, ever again. She mourned the loss of the life once within her. Regretting the choice she made, knowing that in her long list of mistakes, it was the one that would hurt the longest. But most of all, she mourned the loss of herself. For somewhere in the numbness that she had reduced herself to, she had forgotten what it felt like to be who she used to be.

She cried, in the darkness. Wishing there was someone that understood her. Someone that shared the pain she felt. Pain she had gotten so used to, that it had begun to stop bothering her. And when the pain did start to hurt, she merely found ways to push it away. Her schedule kept her busy. Her companions provided her the excuse to not think of those feelings. Her partying and promiscuity furthered the numbness. Then as a last resort, she knew she could always turn to the idiot box, which would keep her mind blank as she dozed off that night.

And as she sat in that darkness, somewhere between the sobbing and crying, she reached for a blade, and held it up to her wrist. Hurting herself was always so simple before. It transferred the pain, distracted her mind. Just for that moment, she didn’t want to think of the abuse. She didn’t want to know she has been abandoned. She didn’t want to feel used. All that was left to do was pull, one stroke after another. Physical pain was always a better option compared to the alternate. But she was too weak to deal with the endless questioning she’d get after. Too sick of having to answer to people who never actually cared to notice the pain before the scars.

So in reality, she dropped the blade, dried up her tears, closed her eyes and prepared herself for the coming day. But in her mind where all those emotions came back to life, she held on to that blade tightly, and pulled it across her wrist as hard as she could. Stroke after stroke, her quivering hand refused to stop. And it didn’t. Not until all that was left was her numb body in that darkness, lying on the cold ground, bleeding itself to sleep.

paint my page

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