Shel

Reads: 268  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Personal Fiction Short Stories

Writing prompt : define lonely


warning (includes depression/self harm)

Bloodstains on the carpet. Clammy hands. Moments flash by. I push them away, into the silence. Loneliness is being in a room full of people and not being able to share words. It can be sitting alone in a library for the sake of looking productive when in reality your world is spinning as life itself unravels. It can even be talking to people without them hearing you. When what you say is ignored, and they continue to ramble about “The Worst Day Ever” AKA, having to run the mile. When for you, it's sitting alone, by the cold, dusty track and wanting to run, but not being able too. Or not sleeping at night because of a non-stop day of school, doctors appointments, and then finally a dinner that ended with a debate over medication. Now there's piles of homework to do, laundry to fold, and a house to clean. Oh, and it’s one am, and all you've done is stare at a wall. 

Lonely is standing near the track watching everyone sprint, leap, and laugh during the track and field unit. It’s going to ballet because you want to at least see the new choreography so it won't be as daunting when you finally attempt it. But then hearing the questions “Why even try? Why try,” whispered around the studio.

Lonely is not wanting to get up in the morning. It's lying down in bed and waiting, wanting, willing for sleep to take you away. To wake up again, and again in the same night because of nightmares. Or waking up at 4:31 in the morning, every day and staring at a wall, wishing nothing existed, or at least you could control something like your feelings, sleep, or pain. Lonely is being the one to control your pain, hiding scars and bloody scabs under jackets, bracelets, and jeans. Lonely is not being able to acknowledge the seeping blood or pale scars without the world freaking out. So you shower and change when no one can see, clean the mangled skin, hide masses of cuts, and use BandAides sparingly because if a lot disappear from the family stash, questions start to fly, asking why they all disappear or why you've had a “Tiny Papercut” for the last four months in the Exact Same Spot. Lonely is masking your feelings and insisting “Everything Is OK,” and “I’m fine.” 

Lonely is hiding in a shell. A shell that hides the truth and has cover stories “on file,” waiting to be used. The shell is what lives a “happy” life. The shell doesn't show the truth. The shell distorts, conceals, and is scared, no ...terrified, to tell a personal story and creates fabrications of a fake persona to portray in class. 

The story changes a little every time it is told. Some days when asked, “Are you ok?” and “You look depressed,” my shell reports back with “Oh, I’m just tired,” sharing “I was just up late last night.” My shell neglects to share that “up late last night” also means “I don’t sleep a lot” or “I stayed up reading dumb and useless books for the sole purpose of distracting myself so that I didn't carry out my plan.” 

Sometimes my shell gets tired. That's a lot of the time now. When it's too tired and overworked to look happy, it crumbles and I finally admit “I’m not OK,” or “Please don’t leave me home alone. I don’t trust myself.” My shell’s cry for help isn't always heard. Responses like “It's just PMS, eat some chocolate you will be fine,” and “So why are you telling me something that doesn't matter and won't exist tomorrow?” start to cause my shell to give up. Because they don't care, they don’t even understand I'm terrified. I'm terrified that the grisly lines get darker, spilling blood as the stench of iron grows stronger. It seeps through clothing to drip everywhere. The carpet, my clothing, the walls. 

Bloodstains on the carpet. Scars are reopened and the blade goes further, at the same time slicing through sticky fingers and the clammy palm holding the blade. I'm strangely calm as it moves further. Towards my neck, my face. And then I think “What if this doesn't work? What if my parents walk into my room and see me covered in blood, but still alive. I don't think I can deal with my family if it doesn't work. I want to know it will work. Not think about the ‘what if?’ So I lower the blade and look at my hands, my wrists, and my ankle. Covered in bloody lines. Some still dripping, some dry. I go to the sink and clean up. I clean my hands, carpet, and throw away the blade. I think “ I will do it later. Not now.” No one will know. Just me.


Submitted: March 07, 2020

© Copyright 2021 ShadowF. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

More True Confessions Short Stories

Other Content by ShadowF

Short Story / Young Adult

Short Story / True Confessions