Late Night Musings of a Lone Wanderer

Here are some late night musings by me.

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6. Five

I wrote this a while ago, but it still applies now.

 

Staring at the water. The clear, seemingly harmless water. This amount could save a family from death, yet it brings death still. Water. It's such a saviour, and such a killer. How many people have fallen in the water's grasp? How many did it of their own free will?

The water is clear. Pure. A better truth teller than she is. How many people has she lied to? How many people know the truth about her? And how many will care that she may fall prey to this water? There is nothing more difficult than standing here, waiting. She wants it to be over. This life of hers is not worth living any more.

This swirling storm of emotion within is in contrast to the still waters in front of her. What other way is there to stop this storm? To relax this fear within her? She is fed up of the way people treat her. She constantly feels put down about herself. Treated like an infant whose emotions need to be cared for because she's too unstable to do it herself. We need to all treat her like a child because she is selfish, ungrateful and childish.

You are what your peers teach you. Peers taught her that she is selfish, stupid, immature, ungrateful and jealous. Always jealous of what she can't have. Stupid because she fell in love with the wrong people; trusted the wrong friends; told her secrets to the people who didn't deserve to know them. Immature because everyone grows up around her, and yet, she still acts like a child; never taking responsibility for anything. She is selfish because she loves the wrong people. Says the wrong things. Acts the wrong way.

Life should come with instructions. Every person should give a list to their peers as to how they want them to act. But nothing ever goes the way that people want it to. You can't type a list into a computer for how you want things to go. Life doesn't work like that, but wouldn't it be so much easier if it did?

Everything that she does is wrong. She works so hard to please people, keep the peace. Do something, anything, that people agree with. Her parents continue to criticise her for what she does. And what does she do? She never knows. She never knows what she does wrong. What has she done to deserve the glares, the silence, the ignorance? Has she done right today? What can she do tomorrow? Will they ever understand that there is more to her than meets the eye? Why isn't there more hours in the day so she can please everyone?

She isn't being abused. She isn't being bullied. She isn't being starved. She isn't dying of a disease. She is fed, given water, given her own room, given a dog. She doesn't have a sibling to fight with, no sibling that steals her possessions, teases her. So what is she missing? Why does she long for the comfort of death? The soft, clear water that will provide her escape from this world. She is missing a fatherly embrace, the conversation within the house that will animate the dark autumn evenings. She is losing her friends. She has lost her love life. Her confidence and self-worth is non-existent. No one seems to be noticing that the blade offers her comfort. That the blade makes her question as to whether she is truly part of this world. No one notices the scars on her wrist, the sadness that goes deeper than the depth of her eyes, the tears that she is holding back. No one seems to truly know her any more. She treasures her friends that do care, but how long will they continue to be there? Before they all leave, go off to university, separate across the country. She longs to run away. She longs for escape. Escape from this complicated world that holds all her problems in its grasp. She sees no end to this sadness, to this pain. At nights, she begs that she would be given a terminal illness so she has an excuse to die. She cries herself to sleep, hearing the phrases “get lost”, “I don't like you in that way” and “I don't want you coming back until your attitude's changed” echoing round her head.

 

She holds the blade in her hand. She doesn't want to do it. She's been clean for about two months now, but something is telling her to do it. Not a voice in her head, just an urge within her heart. Something is telling her to drag the blade across her wrist, create more scars, see if she is part of this world. The first cut is the hardest. It takes bravery and courage, but she wants it, so she makes it happen. The skin turns red, but doesn't split. She does it again, a little harder this time so she can see the blood. A bead of blood appears at the edge of the cut. She is pleased. A sick, strange version of pleased. She dives into this frenzied action of doing it again and again. She drops the knife onto her mattress, cradling the wrist against her chest. It stings, but not as much as she expected. When she takes the wrist away to inspect it, blood is forming along each of the cuts. Some of them haven't broken all the layers of skin, and some of them have, the blood drying at the edges. She puts the blade away for now. Sitting on the bed in tears, she tells herself that she won't do it again, but she knows that's a lie. She will do it again. Once the scars have faded and her pain deepens within, she will create physical pain to distract herself and remind herself that she is part of this world.

 

The water is still there. Still as innocent, clear and pure as it was before. It won't take long. Just put her head under for a few minutes and she will be gone. Her head and lungs will feel like they're exploding, maybe her life will flash before her eyes, maybe she will see a burst of bright light before the end. Then her body will fall to the floor, the water sloshing and dripping all over the edge of the sink. Her head will be wet so they will know what killed her. But can she do it? She didn't say goodbye. Didn't write her last words on a piece of paper. Didn't record a video to tell people why she killed herself.

She can't do it.

But is that a good thing?

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