"Drowning is not the worst part.
Lacking the courage to breathe is."
No one saw her struggle.
No one saw her scars.
No one saw her bleeding.
No one saw her tears.
No one saw her depression.
They never realized the deep waters she swam.
If...
HURT, regret and pain that was everything that managed to stick to her mind. No matter how hard she tried to push every thought away from her, they came back seeping through the cracks.
Her heart and mind were aching, desperately tense and livid at the demons and the world which in reality meant she was really just mad at herself.
Clenching her hands hard into fists she felt her nails dig into her palms drawing blood, but she did not feel it. Just like she did not notice the moist liquid that soaked her sleeves leaving a darker color to her already dull colored shirt in its wake.
As she lay there on the bed, utterly unmoving while staring into the emptiness, she kept counting in her head as if it would desist her ragged breathing.
She wanted to scream or cry. Something. She wanted to smash her furniture into a million pieces, tear apart her clothes and set fire to all the crumpled up pieces of paper that was carelessly thrown around the room. She wanted to react and yet she kept lying on the bed.
Why? Because she realized she was more scarred on the inside than any amount of cuts she could possibly inflict to her wrists. Even more so it bothered her that she knew scarring herself physically had just added to the mental distress she was already in.
Whatever she did, whatever she wanted to do would make everything worse.
She let out a strangled sob, clutching her head in agony, as she felt her head pound with the force of a sledgehammer. Looking at the bedside table she eyed the bloodied blade. She had not even bothered to put it away this time. With utter disgust she threw it across the room before her hands found their way into her messy hair, pulling on it in exasperation.
Sitting up in bed now, she eyed her uncannily clean and tidy room, except for the naked balls of crunched up paper. Even the room lacked personality - a core of originality and a sense of purpose. The walls were white and plain, her desk was clean and empty, her shelves neatly stacked with insufficient books. Sure there were pictures in the room, but they were purchased and impersonal - none of them spoke about her, except for one. With firm steps she went up to that particular picture which rested on her dresser.
She knew why her mother had placed it there, but she did not know what it did to her insides. To her mother all she saw was a happy smiling girl who had a bright future ahead of her. A daughter who was innocent, beautiful and determined.
Trailing a finger over that girl in the photo she would give everything to be that girl. What she would not do to go back to that time and be oblivious to her life right now.
But she could not do it. Things had changed. She had changed. She was changed.
With a sneer she clutched the picture in her grasp and stalked towards her balcony, tearing the door open before she hurled the picture with frame and all towards the opposite wall. A brief sense of relief washed over her as she watched it smash into a million pieces, crumbling to the ground away from her.
She only stayed a minute though, as she would not waste another second dwelling on the pain the picture caused her. Not bothering to close the door after her, she went straight towards her bathroom and eyed her reflection in the mirror.
Her eyes were angry and distraught, piercing themselves with a furious glare that should rattle her core. Her cheeks were flushed pink with rage, just like her lips were shut tight into a thin stubborn line. Her brows were heavily furrowed, sending ripples of wrinkles to her forehead as if illustrating the thoughts she pondered on and sought a solution to.
With a huff and a sneer she opened cabinet sealed behind it and grabbed the tiny bottle before she walked back to her bed not bothering with looking at herself anymore.
She had had enough.
Dropping down on the bed with defeat she eyed the bottle that resided her chance at refuge. Maybe they would give her one last dream before it all would end.
Slowly, she pulled up her sleeves, biting down on her lip. Not because it stung as the half-dried cuts got reopened as the fabric was no longer sticking to the open wounds, but because she had been too puny.
She was weak.
A breath escaped her as she stared at the open scars. 3 new cuts in a sea of others, prickling with the rich red color that made up the pulsing liquid that ran through her veins.
The minutes passed as she merely sat on the edge of the bed watching as the substance clotted and dried. Then she turned the lid on the bottle, hearing the silent pop as it became undone.
She never got to look at the insides as warm large hands inclosed over hers, obscuring her view of the tiny but effective tools of numbness.
With another plop, the bottle and its contents went spiraling to the floor, the teensy white dots sprinkling over the hardwood floor with a clatter, but she did not look as she instead stared at the owner of the hands.
Harte, whose eyes were sad, deep and pleading as they stared into hers. The understanding was still evident as he gazed into her hollow worlds of blue.
Their eyes remained locked even after he released her hands to draw back the sleeves of his white button-up long sleeved shirt. The movement slow, but steady as his inked forearms became visible.
__________
A/N: Gah, I never anticipated just how hard it was for me to write this chapter. I feel her pain, her desperation and her fear as if it was my own, but I also feel that slight strum of my heartstrings as she notices the presence of another.
That's all it take isn't? Harte. <3
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