Faith looked out the window and sighed to herself. Today was another one of those days, a day that made her wish that she was anyplace but here. She tried to pay attention to the guest speaker but her mind kept drifting off to the cruel punishment that awaited her at home.
She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Failing to keep the tears at bay, she quickly excused herself out of the lecture and raced to the bathroom. The bathroom was a fair size with enough space to move around. As always the trash can was over flowing and the retched stench of urine burned her nostrils.
The clouded mirror on the wall reflected a person she did not know. Their eyes were swollen and the ray of hope that once shone there was now dead. The once healthy brown hair that flowed gracefully down her back now lacked nourishment and was jagged. The things that made her beautiful now made her look like another child who had given into a drug that was sucking the life out of her.
Her addiction was what was killing her. It wasn’t smack or weed but something much better. All she needed was a blade or anything with a sharp edge. It started with a scratch, an accident really but it was there that the realization hit her. The emotional and psychological pain she felt was nothing compared to the breath of fresh air that the scratch did. It was then that her addiction started. It is an intoxicating reminder, whisperings of an addiction to that of a blade. The feelings unexplainable as all the pain seeps out carried away by lost blood. No real reason for it and so hard to understand. No matter what she tries, it is her only release.
Love. Happiness. Family.
These were the words she whispers over and over. Words which were more than just words to her. Instead it was a desire, a yearning. A dream that will never be made into reality. She stared into her faded green eyes and longed for the day they reflected life. She ran her hands through her dark brown hair and along the surface of her naked, porcelain skin. Fingertips grazing across the scars that her addiction left.
Small slashes, each tell their own story. A story filled with pain and regret. A longing for a better life. A life without grief and a life without strife. Her body was simply an empty shell. The shell of someone she used to be. The shell of someone she wanted to be. A shell scarred and bruised by those she sold it to. A life she never foresaw. A life she regretted, yet a life she delves deeper in at the awaking of each moon.
Upon her arm laid a beautiful pink scar. Three slashes in a row running down her flesh, an intoxicating reminder. A message from her past, present, and future. Whispering her addiction to that of a blade. The feelings unexplainable as all the pain seeps out. She closed her eyes, crying because she knew as night falls a new customer awaits and there in the dark she gives physically present yet mentally, emotionally, spiritually absent.
In time she knows that her soul will grow cold as the pages of her life begins to unfold. The plight of this life she begins to regret and between each ragged breath and immature stroke of her client, she contemplates whether death would be a kinder fate.
Speak to her of suffering, you must not dare because she does not fear hell since she is already there. Hours after her nightly encounter she stared at her foreign reflection, so deeply consumed she just wanted to scream. Shattered is her soul, like so many of her dreams.
Love. Happiness. Family.
She whispers to her pain stricken face. No hope that her heart would awaken, her soul may then rise, her walls would break, her mind sympathize. She shall remain broken until these times come to pass. Her mind in pieces like mangled shards of glass.
She loads the gun so deeply consumed. This must end as all things do, so she may bury her pain and begin anew.
She takes a deep breath, to their pleas she shall give no pause. Through the pain they shall know her cause.
She pulls the trigger.