A short piece I did for my English exam at the start of this year. TRIGGER WARNING su*cide.


1. Glass…

I think a lot about the night it happened. Black clouds were gathering in the moonlight, darkening the sky and my future. I was once so young and pretty and innocent, now I was broken and tainted. My sun kissed skin was sickened and paled by the stone of my prison. My long, luscious black hair was matted and short and choppy, like fragments of glass. Glass…


I only did it because my demons told me to. The monsters that had lain dormant in my head, my heart and my soul had awoken to blindingly bright fissures of lightning cracking across the sky and the deafening, reverberating boom of thunder. The demons had filled me with fury and rage that burned hotter than the scorching fires that would greet me in Hell. They whispered and screamed and told me in sick, twisted, rasping voices that HE was the cause of my suffering.


I had done what they had asked of me and they had taken away the SEARING rage that had left my soul burned and scarred. Rage that had melted to the very essence of ME, so when it was whisked away so too was everything inside of ME. I was left a broken and empty shell with only fragments of memories like the fragment of glass that had kissed my skin as I drove it down.


I remembered that night, dark clouds gathered and thunder rolled. Rage and fury had turned my vision a crimson red like the blood blooming on my knuckles as I punched through his window. I picked up a jagged shard of glass. The glass beneath my feet crunching and cracking like my sanity.


He was lying in a tangle of white sheets; his golden hair was like a halo, how DARE he! How dare HE! How dare he be pure and angelic wrapped in the tender cloud of his sheets.

The rage surged again, a cresting wave of fire and hatred. I screamed, a raw scream of anguish.

I brought the glass shard down.

It pierced the soft flesh of his throat and I shattered his angelic image and shattered myself.

He tried to scream but only gurgled, choking on his own blood.

Blood that spread across his white sheets.

Blood that was already darkening.

The rage and fury was pulled from me and I was left with only fear and shattered memories.


Dark clouds gathered. The walls of my prison were white. The thin, lumpy mattress was white. The thin sheets on my bed were white. Even the metal frame of the bed itself was white. The drugs they gave me were white. Everything was WHITE and PURE. I was not WHITE. I was not PURE.


They gave me drugs, pills and syringes. They tortured me with therapy. It wasn’t working. I heard their whispered conversations. I was still broken, my sanity like shards and fragments of glass.

They didn’t give me glass in my prison. My only window was barred with beams of cold metal. I looked around my white, stone prison before pulling a sharp jagged piece of metal from behind my bed.

I looked out my window, as the gathering clouds let fall a torrent of rain. I was not only left with my fear and memories, I also had an aching sadness for these final moments. Tears sliding down my cheeks as rain slid down the metal bars of my window. Thick and heavy droplets with the weight of the world and the weight of my memories. The world crying with me as the jagged and crooked piece of metal, like my jagged, crooked life bit into my wrist. When my too white room was painted in blood.

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