"𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬"
[discontinued]
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Marley Smith was not an average teenage girl. She has been an orphan ever since her mother had died when she was just 4 years old. She had been in several foster families a...
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Death.
It was a terrifying word. Something that no-one will ever be able to analyze or predict. It's inevitable; sometimes painfully, sometimes freeing. I'm equally curious about it, as afraid.
That was one of the reasons why I had never committed suicide back then, when I was shoved around by foster families.
I was afraid that, maybe I would regret it. When I'd be falling off a bridge or when I'd have cut open my wrists. I had feared, that I would die full of regret and fear.
Because I hated that feeling. Regret. It tears you apart, slowly and agonizingly. Sometimes you don't even notice it, until it has already ripped you apart. And I didn't want to feel it the last thing before my death. I wanted to be free and not become a prisoner to regret.
But I had never realized that I actually already was a prisoner. I was a prisoner to my depression, to my anxieties. They were controlling me, stopping me from moving on, from healing. I was a prisoner to my own cell.
But the worst about it was, that I was not only the prisoner, who was slowly falling into a downward spiral of pain and emptiness; but I was also the jailer, who tortured the prisoner until their last breath. I was killing myself. My heart was tearing me apart by tearing itself apart and my emotions were pulling me down into a dark abyss, full of darkness.
So, why would killing someone help me out of it? This question was replaying in my head like a broken record, when my family and me were planning on how to kill Linus. It was a monotone and faint voice in the back of my head, that kept on repeating the same words over and over.
But I already knew the answer: It wouldn't.
Killing Linus wouldn't help me feel better. But it would help me feel less anxious. He wouldn't be able to hurt me, nor anyone else, anymore. I didn't even want to imagine what girls, or maybe even boys, he might have already raped or killed.
A shiver ran down my spine by the mere thought of his hands on my skin. His cold and rough hands brushing my hair out of my face or ripping apart my clothes. Or his lips penetrating mine or his tongue being shoved down my throat.
I could still remember his expression everytime he did it. That evil glint glistening and swirling around in his eyes, his dry lips quirked up into a smirk. He was terrifying. Even more so when he was calm. When he would keep all of his anger in. When he would shove it into the deepest parts of his mind, just to pull it out again when we were alone.
I still remember all the cuts on my wrists that had been placed there only because of him. Those cuts, that had given me one short moment of relief and a feeling of freedom, that had given me hope. But it was so short, that I cut at least seven times, everytime I pulled out the razor.
