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Dancing on a Rope

Short story By: Mag Lady

Kloe is tired. She doesn't want to deal with it anymore. She breaks down. PG isn't for any lovey-dovey stuff.

Submitted:Aug 27, 2011    Reads: 9    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


You can't decide whether it was yesterday or the day before that you decided to buy it. It took the meager funds you possessed. Whatever, you won't need the money after this anyway. You hope it's still waiting for you.


Someone asks you what you did last night, and you tell them that you studied. All of course with a smile. It's a lie though, just like your smile, all you did last night was sit on your bed and stare at the ceiling, your eyes welling up every once in a while. You thought the texture of the ceiling looked like your arms.

But you can't tell anyone that, you're Kloe, perfect, perfect Kloe. The girl who is friends with everyone, saving herself until she's married. +A student, Blond with peircing green eyes that sparkle and a great body. Though lately those eyes haven't been sparkling as much, and that body has been dressed in long sleeve shirts to cover your shame. Not a shame to you, but others would be horrified. That wouldn't be perfect Kloe, that wouldn't be Kloe at all. At least not to them.

You sigh as you grab your French textbook, you're so tired of all this. You don't want to deal with it anymore, you want to sleep, maybe wash off all the makeup hiding the circles under your eyes. To others that would be even more shame, almost betrayal to their image of you, the shining girl with the halo over her head. You almost laugh as you see that same halo choke you to death before everybody's eyes, and see the horror on their faces.

Je m'appelle Anna, prête-moi un stylo. That's all you hear before you lay your head on your desk and try to block out the noise. Pull up your sleeve, trace the patterns on your arm. The raised white surface hypnotizes you, and you pass through the rest of the day mindlessly.

When you get home you drop your bag and head to your room. You pull the knife out from under your pillow, your mom used it to cut fruit, before you took it. You press the edge against your skin, feel the pheromones rushing through your brain. Almost like a drug, putting you into a haze.

After the general haze of happiness passes, something inside of you snaps. Your green eyes flood and soon you're crying like a baby, rocking back and forth. You whisper songs to yourself in effort to calm yourself down so no one will hear. No one would hear anyway, but it's a natural instinct. There isn't anyone to hear, your parents are always working, off traveling, probably having affairs. You know they haven't done anything with each other in years. When they come home separately and only stay for a day or two. Once your mom stayed for a whole week, though you didn't talk to her. She gave you a credit card, two grand in cash and went to work. Came home at ten left at six.

Though, for some reason this is the first time you have realized that you truly are alone. Realize that there isn't anyone who would be able to stay with you anyway. You can't even remember what it was like to be happy, to have the warm fuzzy feelings they are always talking about in movies. Movies you don't watch. You haven't watched a movie in so long the name of the one you watched last. The pheromones and depression clouding your mind.

With a sudden wave of energy you grab your laptop and research options. You don't want to be to dramatic and you don't want it to be too slow and you don't want room for mistakes. You think about writing a note, but you wouldn't know what to say. There isn't really much to say, you decide on a poem. Writing the poem isn't much trouble, it always was your strong point. When you were little you used to love showing people your poems. Now they never see the light of day, stored in a drawer that no one would ever find.

You spend the next day or so thinking. You decide and wait for the package. Your impending doom. Though to you that so-called doom is really your savior. You wouldn't make a good Buddhist, though as far as you know Christianity doesn't have any opinions on this, but you haven been to church in a few years, so you can't really say. Oh well, You don't really care anyway, it's not as if it matters at this point.

Finally the package arrives and you decide that you're going to do it tomorrow. And you lay everything out. You stay up all night thinking about how to execute your plan. The poem is written the supplies have been lain out. Should you make yourself pretty You decide to. But you have to use your "parent's" bathroom, all of your mirrors were smashed weeks ago. You decide on a shortsleeve tunic, one that you used to wear all of the time. But this will be the first time in two years. A pair of jean shorts, modest, but stylish. Simple makeup, and you washed your hair so it shines like it used to. Hopefully your mother will be back on time, supposedly in eight hours, you don't want your body to be rotting or anything when they find you. You want them to see your scars clearly. Emotional and physical.

You suddenly scream and drag your nails down your arms. Down so hard that you bleed, looks like a tiger scratched you. Your last time doing this, makes sure to get it all out. After the last scream, you check everything over with surreal calm.

Place the rope around your neck.

Release your breath.

Step off your chair.


My time in this place is up;

like the wind I will be gone.

I've had enough

Something just went wrong

Maybe it was you-

Maybe it was me

All that is for sure is with this deed

All will start Anew.


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