"I want to break free," Willow whispered, staring at the ceiling. "I need escape."
Gripping the knife handle harder, Willow cut another line into her forearm. She could feel the lifeblood seeping from the crisscross slashes lacing her wrists. The tiles were cold underneath her petite frame, but her blood was warm underneath her slender hands and fingertips.
Willow heard the front door shut, her father was home. Luckily, she had shut and locked both her bedroom and the bathroom door.
"Freedom…" Willow liked the sound of the word. She wanted freedom badly. All her life she had been chained down, unable to express how she truly felt. She was always told she wasn't good enough.
Her eyelids fluttered over her jade eyes as she fought to stay awake. Why was she fighting?
The answer was simple: she was afraid of death.
Even though no longer living had an alluring quality… After all, she had studied, written, and dreamed about it, there was something revolting about rotting in the ground. Something in her subconscious feared it.
But Willow was too far gone to go back now.
Her lips parted as she took in a breath; a salty tear escaped from her large eye and trailed down her high cheekbone onto the floor.
Loosening her grip on the knife, Willow traced the vine of ivy she had had tattooed on her hip with a long black fingernail. She was proud of it; it was the only perfect, beautiful thing on her ugly body.
But there were so many imperfections; the scars, the bruises, the burns. She had taken a lit cigarette to herself the other day. And, no, she didn't smoke- she preferred harm that would heal. In a contest between pain first and damage that never truly lasted or pleasure and damage that would always last she'd choose the former over the latter.
So here she was, just waiting to die from blood loss, hearing her kitten scratching incessantly at the door as if she knew that Willow was dying.
"I'm going to miss you, Thorn," Willow croaked, her throat dry. And it was true. Thorn was one of her only friends.
Eyes glazed, Willow looked up at the ceiling again, leaning back on her soft sable hair. She gripped her black lace skirt as the blade bit deep into her pale forearm again.
Willow honestly thought that the cutting wouldn't have gotten this bad. That maybe things would have been better.
But they didn't- no, wouldn't- get better. It's like the world refused to give her a chance at happiness.
At first, no one would understand her last act of defiance. Maybe they never will. They can pawn it off on weakness, insecurities, selfishness. Let them. And then they'd forget she'd ever existed.
Oh, Willow could see it now- her father, finding the suicide note, stained with her blood, then busting into the bathroom to find the little girl he neglected, then the news arriving at school. After that, she didn't know. If the only other friend she had cared about her, she wouldn't spend her time blaming herself.
Suddenly the bathroom light was blinding, and Willow closed her eyes once more. Forever.