Downhill~

Trigger Warnings: suicide, implied smoking, implied drinking, arson.

I rocked back-and-forth. Both the walls seemed to tower around me, enclosing me in their cold, hard and lifeless embrace. Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs and I pulled my knees further into my chest: an attempt for warmth and disguise. The thin, white, cotton-soft curtains blew around the window, this way and that. The moonlight crept in to form ghostly, ever-moving shadows on the wall in front of me. I did not get up to close the window; I was done trying. Sharp slivers of moonlight glinted off the glass photo frames; it reflected on me, taunting me. The people in the photos -my loved ones- seemed to now mock me with the smiles I once used to love.

“Look what you’ve done to yourself,” they whispered cruelly. “Just look.” They seethed with disappointment.

I grimaced. Frantically looking around for some escape, I looked over to my messy bed. I’d thrashed the pillows on the bed, creasing the sheets. My blanket lay half on the floor after I’d flung it off me. Tufts of dry, black hair danced around in little tornadoes around the room. The gust of air was commanding; everything obeyed it.

Disgusted at myself, I looked the other way. My desk: stacked with failed tests, bad report cards and unfinished homework assignments. The open textbooks flickered loudly in the deathly silence. The moving pages seemed to ward me off. I continued to rock: back-and-forth, back-and-forth; a helpless, rhythmic heartbeat’s echo.

The day had gone by just like any other day and had ended the same way. The knives were never sharp enough, the razors never painful enough, the drink never strong enough. My ragged breathing did not stop. A spark of fury grew to an inferno in me. With a swift jerk, I grabbed the glass- it was intricately etched with flowery design. But dirt found its home in tiny, uncleanable places- I was one of those, apparently. Evidently.

Within a flash, the glass was not just shards.

No, it still wasn’t enough.

I walked over the glass pieces scattered on the floor and towards the photo frames above my bed. One, two, three of them, now shattered. How was I not enough? Four, five frames: destroyed. Why was I never good enough? I am so sick of myself. Two months had ruined me. I was the perfect kid.

Six, seven frames.

Immaculate grades, the best daughter and the best student.

Eight, nine, ten frames: no. Still not enough.

I picked out a photo from the floor and shook it. Tiny pieces of glass fell down. Shiny drops of amber liquid dripped down from it. Arching my neck down, I relished at the sight before me. The amber was now mixed with the crimson of my blood. It pooled around my feet. The glass etched and stung and caved deeper still as I pushed my heels further into the ground. Hastily opening a drawer from my desk, I fished out a lighter; I always had one lying around next to my packs. Holding the corner of the photo lightly, I did the deed.

It was beautiful. Glorious. The flame- delicate, yet powerful- was so tantalizing. The bright yellow and orange waltzed and I let it drop. I cackled. It didn’t even take a second. The floor gleaned magnificently. The memories burned. The smiles that had turned to a sea of frowns around me were now ashes.

My feet stung maliciously, but what did it matter? I wasn’t going to be enough anyways. The perfect girl no more. It was amazing what two months could do to you. You would be done, dusted and trudged upon and you wouldn't even understand what was happening. It was a splendid fall until you felt your bones crush. What a laughable tragedy. I tried and tried and tried but who can write when your pen has run out of ink? I accepted- embraced- that and stayed. I stayed where I was, unmoving, smelling burned flesh; smoke of my cotton curtains now vibrant. I filled my lungs until I faded to black: it had gone downhill in the blink of an eye.