Who is your real hero?

This story can be very triggering to self harmers, or people dealing with depression.

Bree is dealing with some very tough things, that she tries so hard to escape. Who will be her hero? Will she have a prince to save her, or will she die trying to be happy?

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1. Hi.

He somehow always managed to wear clean, polished shoes; even when he walked in the rain. When we walked together and he stepped in puddles, he still managed to wear the cleanest shoes. They were always black, and they never got worn. His shirts were always ironed perfectly. He was quite a spectacular person. He wasn’t muscular; he was skinny. His eyebrow was pierced, and he had tattoos; probably really meaningful ones. I was a blank canvas compared to him. I wasn’t sure if he liked me or not, but I knew that I liked our walks. We always walked the same route, everyday: down the field, turn to the left, up the field again right next to the woods. We had never dared to enter the dark field of living creatures. We still didn’t dare, I guess. Or maybe we just didn’t want to change everything more than they already were. He never talked to me. Our eyes never met. I was scared of looking at him, but sometimes I shot him a desperate stare. I hungered for his attention; I just didn’t show it in anyway. It would be way too embarrassing, and he’d hate me more than he already did.

In school he pretended he had never known me. He sometimes pretended I didn’t exist; maybe that was what made him happy?

“Look what I’ve drawn!” Felicity squealed happily.

“What have you drawn?” I smiled, placing my knees on the autumn cold sidewalk outside the school.

“It’s for you. It’s a flower,” she smiled, waiting for a reaction to burst out of me. I held the paper gently and looked at it. The flower had pink petals and a yellow dot in the middle.

“Thank you. I like this a lot,” I smiled to her.

“You like it? Pinky promise!” she giggled.

I pinky promised and she laughed. She then ran to the car so we could get home.

 

When we got home things were as expected. My mum wasn’t home, neither was my dad. The huge house felt so empty. The too perfect white walls killed me; drowned me. The expensive TV’s reminded me of life.

“Can you play with me? Please?” Felicity asked. Her dirt blonde hair bounced when she jumped around and begged.

“Not now,” I sighed, dumping our bags onto the floor.

“Please!” she begged, walking after me into the bathroom.

“No Fizzy!” I admonished a bit too sharply.

“Please! We haven’t played in forever!” she kept begging. She kept going on. I felt myself getting more and more angry at every word leaving her innocent lips.

“No!” my voice screamed, as I hammered my hand down onto the sink.

She was dead silent now. Her lip was trembling and teardrops met in her innocent, emerald eyes.

I regretted it instantly. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, having trouble breathing. The salty tears jumped down from her lower eyelid, like a suicidal would jump off a bridge.

“So, so… I’m sorry Darling. I’m just a little stressed and tired,” I smiled to my 5-year-old sister.

She nodded and sniffled with sad eyes. “C’mon here, baby girl,” I picked her up and ambled to the kitchen. I placed her on the kitchen table and dried away the sadness with my finger.

“Okay?” I asked, and she nodded. My lips lightly tapped her soft forehead. “Go up and play, I’ll be there sooner than you know,” I whispered with a cheeky smile to cheer her up.

“Okay!” she giggled and her small feet tapped each step when she ran up the staircase.

I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with fake air. I blinked a bit too fast, to get the tears away that were stinging in my eyes. I looked out the window.

We always met on that road out there. He stood there now, and he looked at me. I just looked back. That was the first peak at his soul. He waited for me so we could go for a walk. I shook my head; I didn’t want to. I felt especially bad this day; I had forgot to take my medication.

It was weird; he just continued to look at me. I looked at him for a few seconds, but then I exited his stare. I couldn’t take my medication now; I had to take them in the morning. My doctor had told me that. Like he knew anything about it.

My meds were supposed to make me happy; I don’t know if they helped. They could help in one way: overdosing. They you’d die. Then you’d be happy.

I snapped out of my thought bubble when my phone rang. I went to the kitchen again, where it lay. He wasn’t to be seen anymore. I put my phone to my ear and listened.

“Hi,” a known voice said. I recognized the voice, but I still didn’t know who it was.

“Hi,” my voice nearly whispered.

Then there was no more sound, so I hung up. It was probably someone who had rung to the wrong number.

I then went to the bathroom. I didn’t know if I was desperate, excited or scared. I looked in the mirror and sighed. My strawberry blonde hair showed life I wasn’t consisting of. My grey/blue eyes looked back at me. They weren’t shining like they had used to. I had used to be so excited on the world. I had used to be excited to reveal mysteries to myself; I used to see a future for myself. I had one pimple on the right side of my face, which annoyed me unconditionally. I pulled my thick sweater over my head. As soon as my eyes caught the sight they fell. At this moment dying was very very tempting. My arms, my poor arms, were so fucked up. I sat down on the bathroom floor and held my arms out in front of me. It was a museum. This was my little collection of bad memories. I hadn’t cut yesterday, or the day before. I was trying to stop. I was trying so hard to be happy. 

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