TORN...
A lone figure sat in the corner of a darkly lit room.
The sofa was torn, shards of broken glass bottles were spread on the floor, a lamp laid lopsided on the corner, intricate paperweights made of precious glass laid shattered on the shelves they were placed on, books either torn or all about, the carpet burdened with the most expensive of dresses ripped to shreds, and a girl sat in the cleanest corner where her own destruction didn't touch her, hugging her knees to her chest and hiding her face with her locks of disarrayed blonde hair.
Her shoulders jerked for a second, then started shaking vehemently, and she started laughing maniacally, an outburst of ear-piercing cackles echoed through the darkly lit room as though one had been possessed.
She stood, fell forward but regained balance by holding onto the window sill, her ruby red nail polish glistening under the sunlight. It was already morning, and she didn't even notice. Silly her.
She trudged through the chaos, her broken-heeled stilettos shielding her feet from the glass shards she fragmented herself, and made her way to the bathroom.
The lavatory was in no better shape as the living room. Half the vanity mirror was broken, its shards laid with blood on the basin. The bathtub's curtains were ripped out of its hinges, laying by the tub, damp and torn. The tiled floors were either mossy or wet, and the tiled walls were ordained with strung pictures of teenagers of all shapes and sizes, a number matching an entire batch of students of a popular elementary school, more than half of them had already been gashed or stabbed.
She combed her hair out of her face with her fingers, the vanity only leaving her to see one of her eyes and the top of her head, and crystal, powder blue sapphires met her in the reflection.
"You can't stop now." The mirrored girl said, glaring.
Her eyes watered. "I never have a choice, do I?"
The reflection shook her head. "You never did. Ever since that day, you never did."
"No..." She sobbed, holding her head in her hands and shaking violently until her knees gave out and she fell to the tiled floor. "No, no, no, no, no, no! NO! NO!" She screamed, and when she saw the scars on her wrists crying for help, she wept, shaking her head. "Let it stop..."
"It won't." The reflection answered coldly. "It never will. Not until it has to. You have to end it. Until you do, it won't stop." She shook her head. "It never will."
She was shaking violently now, suddenly unable to find the strength to stand. She let her hands feel through the mossy damp tiles, her eyes too wet to see, until she found the wall. She climbed it until the basin, and behind the faucet was her distraction.
She took the razor out and tried to stand, slouching over the sink.
Just to make her feel something, anything... She needed it, she had to do it.
She slid the blade over a scar on her wrist, and with it came a stinging pain that rushed through her hand all the way up the rest of her body. A stinging, horrible feel of pain she needed, she thought. The blood that came after was relief, and her hand suddenly lost strength to hold the razor. She dropped it on the basin and thick drops of blood followed after. She stepped back until she reached the other wall, and slid down onto the damp tiles, her hair still tousled and her tears streaming down her cheeks like the blood streaming down her wrists.
"You have to do it again." The reflection's voice echoed through her mind.
She closed her eyes and counted to ten, telling herself she didn't have to listen. But she couldn't keep the voice out, she couldn't keep that part of her away any longer. She opened her eyes, and the powder blues were no more. Replaced them were a pair of icy, cold sapphires that couldn't feel, not the pain in her soul nor the cuts on her wrists.
She looked up at the pictures strung over the walls, and a picture of a pair of girls caught her attention. She smiled to herself, remembering her encounters with the lass.
A shard of precious glass hung by the precipice of the bookshelf, swaying by her earlier wade, and once her cackles echoed out of the lavatory and through the ruined living area, the fragment broke off from the rest of what was left of it and fell on the floor in a silent ting!
She dragged herself up the wall, her palms leaving blood-stained handprints on the tile walls, and gave the girl on the picture her widest grin yet.
The boring-assed bitch was next.
YOU ARE READING
The Casanova's Class Clown
Teen FictionEmma Anderson has never been one to attract too much attention to herself. She was a crowd pleaser that's for sure, but never the one who called the shots or bring in the crowd itself. She was a go-with-the-flow kind of girl. Believing to forever li...
