This is a random story. Please R&R!
The girl entered her room tiredly, flicking on the light as she did so. She stood for a moment in front of the massive world map that filled most of the wall in front of her. It was covered in small orange dots that marked countries and cities that she had once had the energy to want to visit. Japan, Hong Kong, Italy, Greece, France, England, Germany, Canada, Antarctica...the girl paused to think of Antarctica: cold, so cold it numbed everything, every hurt she had ever experienced, free of pain and disappointment. Her slim fingers traced the coastline, then she laughed hollowly and turned away to face into the room.
It was messy, with torn and blood-stained clothes strewn everywhere. It smelt of cheap perfume, alcohol and stale sweat. One small table, however, had nothing on it except a photograph in a decorative frame. Dark locks of hair fell into the girl's thin, pale face as she picked it up.
Holiday in Sydney, she recalled, her, and Mum and Dad, and her older brother. The perfect family scene, she thought bitterly. So fake, so pretentious. Look at us. You'd never guess I was screaming inside. Her pointed face had an intense expression as she studied closely each family members face. Her mother stood beside her outside the Sydney Opera House-yes, Mother, who never told me it was wrong to starve myself, but instead said that size eight was too fat for a sixteen-year-old, and just watched as I made myself throw up. Her father stood with his arm around her mother's shoulders-ironic, since he beat Mum and told me I was to blame, then hit me, called me a dirty slut, and introduced me to drugs. And that was when he was sober. And her older brother stood with her, his arm protectively around the girl's waist-protective, yeah, right. He didn't protect me from himself. He couldn't make it as a respectable twenty-two year old, so lived at home, beat his mother, got drunk and regularly raped his bulimic, anorexic little sister. Perfect family? She scoffed, and hurled the picture at the wall, making it shatter into a thousand pieces-like her sanity had, once.
She looked at the small white bottle that she held in her right hand. Go on, she urged herself mockingly. Take the easy way out. She slowly unscrewed the lid and shook the bottle until the pills fell out onto her palm. She held them up to the flickering light, as if they were an offering to some unseen god.
Can I do it? she wondered, not afraid but curious. Pale scars on her wrists shone clearly in the light, and she turned her attention to them. I didn't want to die, back then, she realised. I just wondered if anyone cared. She laughed grimly, an ugly sound. Well, I certainly found that out.
Do I want to die now? she asked herself, and the answer came in a flash: Yes. Do it.
She thought about leaving a note, just to say-to say what? "This is your fault"? "I hate you"? No, she decided, they don't deserve it. My corpse will be enough.
She lay down on the bed and looked at the bottle of pills, so innocent. A sentence on the bottle caught her eye, ironically: "Do not exceed the recommended dose". That's the whole point, she thought. A bible in the corner of the room, gathering dust, caught her eye. She knew it wasn't hers, but she couldn't remember where it had come from. She must have been drunk, or stoned, or both, when it had come into her room.
Where were you, God? she thought angrily. Where were you when I began to starve myself? When my own father hit me? When my brother raped me and threatened me with a knife to keep me quiet, where the hell were you? When I cut myself and drank and smoked, where the fucking hell were you? She picked up a glass of water and began to methodically swallow pills. When she reached the last one, she paused and turned again to the bible, and raised her glass to it.
"To you, God," she proposed aloud. "To you and to your bloody world, which happens to be my own private hell. Cheers!" She drank, swallowed the last pill, and collapsed against the cushions. "No regrets," she whispered to herself, and slept.
Eventually her body became cold. Her parents found it, and while they wept and pretended to care, it was all fake. Her mother threw herself off a multi-storey car park a month later, and her father was rarely sober afterwards, but it was not for their daughter, who they mistreated and could not be bothered to know. It was due to their own regrets.
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