Perfect Girl in this Imperfect World

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is actually true. It has been written about a friend who i really want to help. She is a self-harmer and i am trying to raise awareness about self-harming because she is bullied because of it so she self-harms even more. Its a cycle and i want it to stop. So please read its quite short and it would only take five minutes

Submitted: October 09, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 09, 2011




This is a story about a girl living in a broken and dying world. This is a story of how she lost her way in the darkness. Sadly, there is no moral and no happy ending. Just a sad girl struggling to make sense of a topsy-turvy world...

There was a building; a huge, grand school. There were fifty three windows. From an outsiders view, they could see fifty two sets of happy, smiling girls messing around, throwing pens and pencils, giggling and enjoying their break. But in the fifty third window, a dark haired girl sat, alone, in a deserted classroom. And if you looked closely, you would be able to see the compass clutched in her left hand, glinting in the sunlight. Scrunched up paper is littered around her feet with poems that will never be written, stories that will never be heard, songs that will never be sung. This girl is broken and rejected like the poems scattered around her.

A single tear drops from her right eye. She bites her lip and plunges the compass into her wrist, once, twice, three times. And if you listen closely, you can hear her cry warm, wet tears - full of longing. She longs to be loved and held and cuddled and told that everything will be alright. Yet that fairytale is flecked with the blood flowing freely from her wrists, her hips, her thighs, wherever she chooses to punish.

The children are playing in the fields. She watches, for a while, and then picks up a pen and a scrap piece of paper. She starts to write. Her feelings pour onto the paper; the occasional drips from her wrist stain the parchment. Her tale is one of sorrow and of pain, of tears and of sadness. It is beautiful but flawed, just like her. She cries some more, just letting the tears roll down her cheeks.

Then the door creaks open. It is a schoolgirl. She takes one look at the broken girl sitting at the window and she judges her and labels her as a freak, an emo, a social outcast. Then the girl runs away; she is frightened. She has seen the blood and she is scared. But she tells no-one.

The dark-haired girl curls up in a tight ball and rocks gently. She holds her tummy and her loose chocolaty hair flops over her knees as she rocks to and fro. She is still holding the compass. She is alone again, not just in the deserted room but in the world. No-one understands her because no-one cares to listen to her tale. This is why I am telling it. So you will sit up and listen.

The world we live in is a beautifully imperfect world. It’s difficult; we struggle as we swim against the tides and if we stop for one minute we will sink. The further we sink, the harder it is to reach the surface again. It is the same with the dark haired girl: the deeper she cuts, the harder it is for the cuts to heal again. The deeper she cuts, the longer it will take for it to mend. And the more she cuts, the harder she is to rescue.

At home, she is ignored. Her father is a hardworking accountant and her mother is a social butterfly. She sits in bed, crying silent tears. She traipses downstairs to the bathroom to clean herself up. She flicks on the lights. They turn on with a soft click. The tiles are chilling under her bare feet. She makes a grab for the tissues and wipes her sodden face.

Her eyes fall upon the small razor sitting on the corner of the bath. It shines in the blinding lights. She reaches towards the razor. She sees her face reflected in its polished sides. A small tear drops onto the blade, blurring the image. Her fingers curl around it and she pulls it near to her. She examines it, and then slips it into her pocket. The compass sits, forgotten, upstairs.

She seeks solace in the razor. She finds herself by the window again. This time the paper is cleared away and the door is barred. She fumbles around in her pocket for no real reason. Her fingers feel wet. She pulls them out, puzzled. She remembers the razorblade. She picks it up and absent-mindedly digs it into her wrist. It pierces the skin. She cries out in pain. There is a deep gash in her wrist. It makes her feel more alive than ever. It feels good. She takes a deep breath and slashes herself again, harder and with more intention than usual. She is in an impenetrable bubble. She is stuck in the moment. Finally, she puts down the razor. It shines no more.

She becomes addicted. Every day she curls up by the window and slashes her wrists, her hips, her stomach, anywhere she can find. It is her way of punishing herself. She doesn’t want to die, she simply hates being alive. She is so alone in this world.

The razor is no longer silver. It is stained with red. Her blood seeps through the self-inflicted wounds. She cries with desperation. She mumbles the same words again and again: “please let me die, I don’t want to live. Please let me die, I don’t want to live.” Yet no-one hears her silent prayer. There is no God. There is only her, rocking backwards and forwards in an empty classroom.

Fear is keeping her alive. She is ashamed of her weakness and she hates herself for it. So she cuts herself more and more, deeper and deeper. It is a perpetual cycle.

She is scared, hurt, miserable and bleeding - not only from her skin but from her shattered heart. She is scared of what she is doing to herself; she knows no good can come of this.

Why does she cut herself? Why does she harm herself? People don’t understand her or why she does it. She needs somebody to help her out but no-one dares go near. She cries out for help but her plea is lost in the hurly-burly of life. She needs to be loved; she needs to know she is loved. She needs hope; she needs to know that there is hope, that there is always hope. She needs to be rescued; she needs to know that rescue is there for her when she needs it.

She is not the only one struggling with addictions and self harm. There are others out there who feel just like she does: alone and scared, mocked by their friends, ostracised for being different. I, in all my twelve years, have seen many lives go by who feel like she did. She is not alone...

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