C R U E L W O R L D

G U I L L O T I N E

Guillotine

Written - 24/06/17

Note - if you would like me to continue the story, or write anything you like, comment or send me a PM or something.

~ WARNING ~
Suicidal themes, please don't read if you aren't comfortable/find it triggering.

A conspicuous paralian, standing in a tightly wrapped silk dress in colours of faded pink and lilacs. Her gold of hair was floating around her shoulders in loosely set curls, and she was simply beautiful.

However her sickened mind caused her to see herself as nothing. Not beautiful, not ugly. Not smart, not stupid. Average. 60%. A wholesome 'C'. Most would be satisfied with this rating, but everyone taught her not to.

Her loving parents, just wanted her to be successful. They came from a poor, dumb plagued country, and they taught her that 'a 'C' is never good enough. Never let yourself be 'at expected level'. She couldn't blame them. And we all know that all your parents say, is always true. Enough strikes and insults have taught her that.

The media. You must differ. Not cool in an original way? Not good enough. She knew that social constructs are what weigh down the greatness of humanity, but she still tried to conform to a specific mould, while at the same time, tried to be unique.

Her friends, were supportive in all ways. However, them being young, sick people, most being less aware of the profane words of sponsored Instagram captions and promotional beauty videos plaguing the minds of young children, they couldn't help her more than she could help herself. They all struggled with their own, self-diagnosed mental problems and body dysmorphia. All as clueless and confused as herself.

All these things blended together caused complete self-hatred. But what could be worse? Oh yeah, she's also incredibly lazy. So lazy that she can't be bothered feeling feelings anymore, and being sad on that red ink marking 49% on the papers of her hard work. Or being angry when her parents call her an ungrateful bitch once again. Or when her friends give up on her constant zoning out and mental blocks.

Maybe, she should go see a psychology expert, you might say. Well, she's tried.

She was going to do it. She wrote a note of explanation, thanks and apologies, and put it on the smooth marble of her kitchen table. She was going to win. To beat her biggest adversary. The acatalepsy was eating away at her fragile insides, and has crushed her brain. Eaten away her emotions, hopes and dreams. She dressed, painted on her layer of makeup and ate coco pops like usual. Then she headed out. She walked on the pavement, with nothing but her Russian sun socks, and made her way to the train tracks by her house. She made sure no one could see her, then sat on the middle, on the hard, sharp rocks which dug into her calves. She listened to the wind, letting the aesthete of her take over.

It was a cool day, however the sun was bright, but not warming. Like a friend, who looks like they would love, but they are truely not the type to do that. And if you didn't wear a jacket, well then you'd be scraped by the manner of your friend.

Her socks were dirty, and she was wearing all black, as if she is already mourning for her own self. She thought and thought. She does it every day, but today was important. It was the last time she was going to submerge herself in her lukewarm pond inside her head and let her consciousness back away from the very front of her brain. It was the last time she was going to think, in other words.

How did she get here? What lead her innocent, pure self, who loved god so much and believed there will be a happy ending to these dusty, used up train tracks? Why did she not win?

The polytheism between god, science, herself and others was what lead her away from the equanimity she yearned. But as she sat there, being the logophile she was, thought of the best combination of letters would describe her situation best. Then it hit her like the train which was soon to arrive. Blasphemy. Not to god, no. But rather, it was to her own self. She often preached about herself negatively, bashed herself and said she was wrong. Even though, her situations were no where near what others were going through. She was stupid. She knew it. And not in the way that others think, rather in the way that everyone is. All it took her was these tracks to whisper it into her ears as she was about to end her life.

She died anyway. The train hit her as planned, people cried, mourned and moved on. But at least now, she died happily, realising her mistakes and flaws, and continuing on into the carbon cycle. She was too far gone, she wouldn't fit into this lovely world anymore, but she definitely fits as an amorphous spirit, brooding the afterworld, exploring the future. The train tracks were the guillotine she was destined to stand upon.