The Voices (3)

Continuation of Origins and My Only Question. The haunting voices that keep me up at night.

I don't know how this happened.

It's been 131 days.

I lie in bed and feel the cold metal between my fingers, twirling the needle back and forth, the dried red reminder poking my palm. I hear my roommate breathing deeply, sleeping in the bed across the room, oblivious to the tears streaming down my cheeks. She sleeps. She sleeps. Sound asleep. I wish I could sleep, but it's too loud. People surround me every day, but they just sit. Just stare. Waiting for me to fail again. You're disgusting. Look at yourself. How can you stand it? How can you ever be proud of that, they cry.
I can't.

It's been 131 days.

Their silence is deafening. You're nothing. You're worthless. They scream. The people say nothing. The voices are not theirs. How can they be so quiet? Don't you hear? Can't you see? I'm drowning in this sea of words running through my head. See me!
You're not worth seeing.

I think of him, the one who waits for me at home. He says I'm beautiful. He says I'm smart. Maybe he could save me.

You're not worth saving.

Even if he could, would he want to? Who would want to? Who would want me? I'm damaged. I'm broken. I don't need the voices to tell me what I already know.

It's been 131 days.

I stare at the blood creating rivers down my stomach. The tears have stopped; they always stop when I have my needle. The skin tears under it as the blood beads once more. I run my finger over it and swirl it between my fingers, staring in awe. I paint my hands red. My needs are changing, evolving. My wrists are pale and inviting. But they will see my wrists. They will judge my wrists.

But the voices scream anyway. Do it. This is what you deserve. I press my arms to the lines on my stomach instead. When I pull it away the lines are there and the waves wash away the voices, if only for a moment, as I stare at the blood dripping down my wrists. Warm blood. Mesmerizing blood. Calming blood. 

My blood.

It's been 0 days.

“That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt.”
~Peter Van Houten

Author's Note

Like the others, I do not want your pity. I don't need your "help."
If you haven't read Origins and My Only Question, they explain more about this.
The thumbnail is not mine.
Other than that, thanks for reading! Be sure to review and whatnot.

Reviews

[icelandicblue]

This is quite a riveting piece. The voices are like hammers banging away at her psyche. We all live inside our heads where no one else can hear what goes on there. That only added to the isolation and terror of the character. I liked the way you posted the number of days. I found that to give the reader a quantitative jolt. Overall it is a compelling piece.

[Rachel Anderson]

Thank you for the wonderful review! I'm glad you liked it.

[Draven_Writes]

I think that there is good emotion in it, but I have to insert it myself as a reader. I think what you are trying to do is make the reader feel your emotion. Put more detail about the emotion. The way that it is you are just simply putting a word out there and you expect that people understand what you mean. Make them understand. Great gob though I love it!!!

[Inda]

I like this, the repetition makes it seem more like poetry than a flash story, but there's not an exessive use of it. The narrative is captivating and focused; which is very important especially when dealing with such a subject. Great job!

[Rachel Anderson]

Thank you :)