"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
Before I post what I've written so far I have just a few things to say. First off, isn't my Birthday avi cute?!
Sorry, I'm an avi-holic and had to make something for My b-day tomorrow. . . in2 and a half hours. I'll be 16! YAY!
*cough* Okay, about this. One, it's not done. Two, It is a piece of fiction, but it is very real for me. This deals with my depression and anger during the last couple of weeks. I don't know if I could say I've hidden it well or not, but it only seemed to appear at my most vulnerable time: when I'm feeling all alone.
I accidentally let myself cry the other day in front of my friends, which sucked. I can't talk to my mom, I can't talk to my friends. No one takes me seriously or seems to get what I'm saying or that I just want to be listened to. I don't care if there's an answer or not.
So before reading this and freaking out: I am NOT suicidal. I DO NOT cut. This is just trying to describe my inner struggle at the moment. So it's a bit fast paced and angry and so so sad.
This is written in third person without a name for the girl so that is quite an issue while writing. First draft (not that I'll probably redo it) and just emotions trying to explain themselves as best as possible while trying to give a very detailed, but not visual.
"Oh, you ca'n't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. . . ."
The rigged edge of the now-black knife ripped through the flesh of the young woman's thigh, a waterfall of blood pouring from the ripped flesh. She fell to her knees, inches deep in a crimson pool and sobbing into her blood-stained hands, her once-silver hair now dark and matted with red. She grabbed the knife again and tore it across the back of her left arm, another stream of crimson blood spilling out the new wound. She stood up shaking, crimson droplets trailing down her peach legs.
The girl gasped for breath, choking on the air forced into her sore lungs. She stumbled to her bed, her feet splashing through the pool at her feet, and threw herself onto the dirty sheets. She sniffled and turned over, pushing herself to sit up. Her fingers lightly traced where the knife had ran across her thigh. The wound was gone without even a scar, the skin smooth and clean. Her eyes flared and she grabbed the knife again. In a rage, she slashed at her arm and legs, crying the entire time, blood pouring from the wounds and turning the sheets an even darker shade of red. Her tears fell to the fresh wounds, burning them and mixing with the crimson liquid.
She screamed as loud as she could, stripping her throat raw. She didn't care; it'd be like new in only a few seconds. She screamed and screamed, her arm tired from wielding the knife, and her tears streaming down her red cheeks from her clenched eyes.
She stood, her blood falling from her arms and legs, adding to the half-foot of the irony-salty mix at her feet. She opened her lavender eyes, red and puffy from her endless tears, and looked up at the tall ceiling, the only part of the room that her blood did not touch. This thought frightened her more than it angered her. She turned her eyes away and surveyed her surroundings with distant, untrusting eyes.
A wave of grief washed over, making her heart tremble. She clawed at her chest with her bloody fingers, knife still in hand, carving a line above her breast. Her throat tried to make a sound but she choked on it. She cleared her throat, and sang. She sang no specific song, using 'ah' to carry her voice, but let her mood create the melody. The more she sang, the more the tears flowed, and the weaker she felt. She moved slowly and solemnly to the melody of her broken heart, a weird ballet on a crimson lake, taking each step carefully as her body wanted.
Her legs began to wobble as her sorrow drained her. She began to force her movements and sound more, until her singing reduced to sobbing and her feet stumbled. Without her concentration, she slipped on the cold marble floor beneath the thick lake. She fell backwards, not bothered to catch herself or to panic.
The broken girl hit the pool, her head smashing against the marble. As her vision began to fade, she prayed that she wouldn't wake up this time.
When she woke up again, she cursed herself, the tears beginning to well up in her rested eyes. She sat up in the pool, noticing it was higher than when she fell. She knew that her head bled longer and more than the rest of her body (not as much as her heart) but for it to cause the pool to rise more than two inches was absurd. For a moment, she remembered waking up earlier in a rage. A throb in her chest reminded her that it wasn't a dream. She looked down at her maroon shirt to see a long rip down her chest.
She pulled it off, the wet material sticking to her skin. There was no scar, but a river of dried blood beneath a clean circle of skin showed her where she had dug the knife into her heart.
