Short Stories

Hollow Hearts

Her eyes flickered from corner to corner, taking in the empty space that seemed to surround her. No one ever seemed to notice the girl in the back of her room with scars up her arms and books hugged to her chest. They didn’t notice her unless they wanted to taunt her. They didn’t make her feel welcome unless they wanted to get in her pants to see just how far up her thighs the scars went. They wouldn’t talk to a freak like her. Not unless they wanted something she had that they didn’t. A girl would ask for a pencil or her life, it just depended upon the day. A boy would ask for her eraser or her virginity, and that just depended on who he was. Everyone would ask for her sanity, snapping bits and pieces off until there was nothing more than a whisper of what once was. The cry of what once was the best thing about her. Her brains were something she was exceedingly proud of, if she wasn’t wanting to kill herself at the moment. She was slinking away from the world of the living, quicker and quicker was her descent, but no one would acknowledge it. She had brains and beauty, but who were any of her classmates to notice? They kept on pushing her further and further to the edge of madness, where she clung on for dear life. Then, suddenly, she was falling. Her heart began to spiral into madness, her brain fell long before the rest of her body knew what was happening. At home her mother would look sullen, her face sunken in as if she had been through hardship, and she had. Her daughter was fading away, disappearing before her wary eyes.

“Mom, I don’t know how to handle living like this. I can feel parts of me falling beyond my grasp. I feel broken and trampled, and I can’t seem to find the glue that will put me back together. Mom, help.” But she knew deep inside that her mother wouldn’t–couldn’t–help, because she too was fading faster and faster from everything she knew. She would stay at home more and hide away in her room, falling into a depression that no one seemed to know the cause of.

“Sweetheart, you’re just fading away. Find someone who can color you back in so you can hold on a little longer.” The mother spoke with a short, clipped tone. She didn’t care how her daughter would end up, as long as she didn’t have to deal with her too much longer.

Her long forgotten brain clicked on at this statement. Why did someone else have to color her in? Why couldn’t she pick up a pen herself and change everything? The scars on her wrists and thighs were still there, but instead of taking her razor to them, she made art. She drew her story across the lines on her skin. She slowly found the pieces of her sanity that had been scattered in the wind. The people at her school stopped asking her for her life or her virginity. Instead, they started to see who she was behind the books and behind the scars. They began to take in the colors that danced across her skin and in her heart. She was no longer fading to gray, instead she started to fade from her old self. She started to blossom out of who she once was. Instead of dying, she was finally living.

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