Love Without A Timer

Chapter 8: Gone, but never forgotten

She is slowly drifting away. I don't know what else to do, or who to talk to. I haven't gone to school because I'm afraid she will do something drastic in my absence. I can't lose them both.

Jaydee's pov *Jasmine's Mom

TRIGGER WARNING ⚠

Gosh. I miss him so much. WHo could ever do something like that to someone else? What was their motive in killing him? What did they get out of it? Did they know he had a family? Waiting patiently for him to return home. Did they even care? NO, they probably didn't. They probably didn't even bat an eye when they killed him. He didn't deserve to die.

For the past week, I've just been in my room. I'm scared of the world now. People are out killing others for no reason. This world has really gone to shit. So much guns and gang violence by misguided children, hoping to fit in and make a name for themselves. Its disgusting. I never thought this world could be so cruel. If this is the new reality, I don't want to be here anymore.

Slowly getting up, I made my way to the bathroom connected to my room. I shut the door and locked it. I ran the bath water and let the tub fill up. I didn't even bother to take my clothes off as I stepped into the warm water.  My body relaxed, but I still felt emptiness. I looked over to my sink and saw my razor, I use to cut when I was younger until I met Joseph. I was depressed because I was constantly picked on for my mom being a crackhead. They called me a crack baby. They even went as far as to bring baby powder to school and blow it on me, saying I was use to it. I was pushed around and I never really made friends. My mom died when I was 13 years old and I never met my dad. I had no one. Therefore, I resorted to cutting myself. WHen I met Joseph, he told me his heart broke when he saw my scars. He kissed all of them, every single one and said that I was still beautiful inside and out. He made me promise to never cut, but I didn't know if I could fulfill that promise.

He told me if I ever had the urge to pick up a razor, to instead pick up a pen.pencil and write. That's how began writing poems. The first one I wrote was about giving up the razor.

"Dear Diary,

I am weak

I have tried to ignore the callings of my razor

It wants my skin to hold it, to caress it

Wanting my blood to lick its face once more

My wrists pleading to be reunited with its old friend

For I have forgotten who my real friends are

The one that comforted me after my first heartbreak

Or hugged me when I lost everything dear to me

The one that told my skin it was okay to cry on its shoulder because it will son feel relieved again

I will be happy once it is back in my life

Or so I am told

Truth is, that friend is a leech

On my soul and heart

But literally my blood

I can't keep allowing it to keep talking me into giving my life away

Cut by cut is more step closer to my end

But I am stronger than that

I can break free of the chains the blade has on my wrists

Forcing my hand to make a hard line against my once smoothed skin

Turning it into unnatural mountain ranges of broken skin and pain