sixteenMature

she sits on the edge of her bed with the volume up so high she can feel the floor shaking underneath her bare feet, trying to get lost in the music, hoping it will give her the answers.
she knows that it's this loud only because it screams of pain, anger and disappointment in a way she will never be able to.
taking a razorblade from its innocent hiding place, she fights a sudden urge to cover every inch of her pale skin with gashes; arms, legs, stomach, chest, face even. her eyes cloud over momentarily as she imagines the result, and then she is sickened for even thinking about it. she contents herself with just her wrist, as always, dragging the blade slowly across her veins and watching the blood surface and glitter on her skin.
feeling tears begin to burn the back of her eyelids, she forces them away, hating her own weakness and self-pity.
she stands and walks over to her full-length mirror, disgusted at her reflection, but enjoying the effect of candlelight on the blood running slowly down from her wrist.
looking closer, she notices the dark smudges under her eyes, evidence of the many nights she lies awake, thoughts racing. but she is used to not sleeping, and prefers the night; she knows exactly what she is and doesn't have to pretend.
she's getting thinner. but not thin enough, she reminds herself. she hasn't been punished enough yet, but it takes a lot of will power and is beginning to exhaust her.
but she knows she deserves it, and their criticism only strengthens her belief.
walking over to her bedside table, she picks up the sweatband she always wears and puts it on, covering the new cuts on her wrist and feeing them begin to sting.
she sits back down on the bed, recognising the pain she hears in the pounding music she plays, knowing that soon she must be ready to pretend again, wondering why it's easier to lie to people even though she is failing, just like they expect her to.
in her eyes, it's better to protect them from the ugliness of who she really is for as long as she can fake it.
but she is beginning to wonder just how long that will be, and she is scared.
control, she thinks. control. i am in control.
but even as she whispers the words to herself she knows she is anything but.
a voice inside taunts her cruelly; control? you call this control? you're barely holding yourself together!
you might as well just give up now. go ahead, give up. it's what you want, and no-one will be surprised.
you're worthless, weak, pathetic, useless.
look at all you have, all you could be, and you're just letting it go to waste.
you were always such a good girl, so sweet. too bad their little miracle grew up to be such a disappointment.
that's all you are, you know, and all you ever will be. nobody likes a liar, but everyone knows the truth about you anyway. you're just a waste of space, a failure.
you fucked up again, and you let everyone down. it's all you ever do, hurt people and disappoint them.
no-one needs you anyway, you might as well be dead. you've been told that before, remember? go on, make everyone's lives a little bit easier.

on and on, until it's more than she can stand.
she edges back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, hands pressed to her ears to drown out the relentless accusations she believes to be true, wanting to scream and scream until it stops, until everything stops.
this is it, she thinks, this is what losing your mind feels like.
tears run freely down her face now, silently. she takes her hands away from her ears and covers her face, trying to breathe slower, willing her mind to rid itself of these thoughts, this thing that possesses her and makes her dream of death.
she knows its grip is not always so tight, but she also knows that it will never leave her, and it's only a matter of time before it crushes her completely.

The End

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