She sat, maliciously clawing at her own cheeks, trying desperately to avoid her wrists. It would have barely mattered regardless, she would have worn a long sleeved shirt and smiled, lying about the non existent cold. How she longed to accidentally roll them up and press the image into everyone’s head - the carnage and wreckage from the night before - but she doubted that the proof of true sorrow would be there. It would be just a scratch, no bone would be showing, no scars would be left. She could just never go back, never answer her phone - watch the messages pile up and let the rumours fill the gaps. Had she died? Had she slowly slept through death on two empty boxes of migraine tablets or leapt and fell and hit the steady earth? She realised that the act itself sought attention, so perhaps she should just disappear. Change her name, change the colour of her hair, cross the country. She realised then that she would never be sorely missed, merely fade into the mass of people who had gone before. They would learn to live. She was the silence that balanced her friend’s outbursts of pain. She never cried or ran or was chased after, she simply chased. She had cried once in a mess of anger and violence but no one ever ran after her: they said nothing. She wanted to scream out and beg for sympathy but no one ever heard. They continued in their own screaming and begging, saying nothing. She was becoming ill and still, nothing. She started to fade into her own silence, watching the internet become riddled with sympathy messages for those who had kept on screaming and begging, those who had chosen careful depressing song lyrics and careful evoking passages to voice what she suspected was only on the surface. She felt betrayed. She knew that she would never receive so much glory for the troubles she faced, though they were always harder to face, harder to endure and live with. To those she told, did they truly believe her? Did they want to? She could bet the earth that they would rather have a darker tale to tell. Who would ever know her? Who would ever know that I was…I am her. Who would ever know that I am slowly fading into silence? Fading, alone.

woocie:

dorkvader:

fatregina:

The past, present, and future walk into a bar. It was tense.

Knock, Knock.
Who’s there?
To
To who?
To WHOM
 

LOLOMG

(Source: intervals)