Her Story

Some days, she wondered just where everything had gone wrong. Some days, she couldn't believe things were that bad. Most days though... she just didn't care. All of her days were spent in a glassy haze of weed smoke and tears, a life halfway in between awake and asleep.
It had definitely gone wrong when her "boyfriend" had fucked her over, literally. It had been a cold winter day, the air still and frozen, almost hazy white with it's solid chill. That much she remembered, not because she'd been looking but because she'd felt the iciness on her bare skin, in the form of her frozen body and chattering teeth. The rest was too painful to try to keep in her mind, flashes of black and red, darkness and pain whirling around her in a devilish tango, working to bring her closer to unconsciousness. Thankfully, that also meant she didn't get any of the nastier details, and as painful as the knowledge of her rape was, it would have been excruciating agony to have to relive those moments in her mind over and over. That night, she'd cut deep, splitting the fragile surface of her skin. Digging deeper for the treasure of those blue green cords, she found a liquid release in the form of darkest red. It had dripped lazily down her arm, and the rest of her night was spent sitting there, watching it steadily spiral down her arm, cold and alive, warm and dead. The next day, she was sent to a mental ward.
Wait. No. There was something a few years ago. Something... oh yeah. Her dad. That grimy, greasy, cheap, drug dealing sonofabitch with a brain the size of his dick, which was to say, not very big at all. When it had started, she had absolutely no idea, but it had been something she'd grown up with, even on. The dirty scowls, the angry shouts, the cold insults, the blood soaking her face, dribbling from her broken nose. Maybe that'd been what had broken her. Maybe all those years of unending fear, pain and anger had finally decided to make their mark on the entirety of her agonizing life. The only marks she could make on her own life were those etched in warm red blood, stretching across the canvas of her smooth skin. And even those were beginning to lose their meaning, the pain and suffering refusing to leave her. On the days that she could thing, she began to realize something. Now she knew what it was. She was beyond saving. She was a human wreck, a soulless husk of a person only filled with pain. Maybe it's time to fix that. Maybe it's time for her to save herself. Maybe she can be saved from life. If she just lets go of it, she'll be free, forever. But she's still too scared. Every time she's tried to go deeper, her hand trembles uncontrollably and her eyes tear up. Because the truth is she doesn't want to die. She wants to live.
But really, do you think that matters? She just balls up the memories, good and bad, every single thought she's ever had, and tosses it aside. And today, believe me; she does it.