One-shot Compilations

Die

I gazed at the girl before me, her tear-streaked face hauntingly familiar. Her eyes, once vibrant, were now swollen and puffy, a testament to the silent agony she had endured. She had been crying for what felt like an eternity, suppressing sobs that begged to escape her trembling lips. In the dim, desolate room, I observed her pain, the weight of it suffocating the air around us. The feeble glow from a small light barely illuminated her figure, contrasting sharply with the harsh spotlight that illuminated me, sparing me the pain of witnessing her despair too clearly.

As she moved, a delicate attempt to compose herself, she softly brushed away the tears that clung desperately to her lashes. A fleeting smile graced her lips, revealing a set of teeth that once sparkled with joy. Yet, her eyes betrayed the facade, mirroring the anguish that dwelled within. Her smile, though captivating, couldn't hide the internal fractures, the silent cries for help that echoed through her soul.

"I'm fine," she uttered, her voice barely audible, a desperate attempt at self-assurance. The words lingered in the air, a fragile shield against the tempest of emotions raging within her.She smiled again, but this time, the tears streamed down her cheeks like a relentless cascade. The juxtaposition of a forced smile and the raw vulnerability in her eyes was unsettling. In that moment, she seemed to grasp the magnitude of her brokenness, an acknowledgment of her inability to control the tidal wave of emotions drowning her. Her confident exterior, meticulously built after leaving a judgmental village, was now crumbling with each passing day.

I witnessed her clenching her hands against her chest, not merely in pain but in a desperate attempt to contain the emotional unraveling within. It was more than pain. It was the slow decay of her spirit. Like a once-beautiful rose wilting under the weight of despair, like a brilliant light bulb flickering as its vitality waned, she was withering away inside, a casualty of the relentless assaults on her confidence and sanity. The city, where she sought refuge to rebuild her life, now became the stage for a tragic unraveling, a stark reminder that the echoes of judgment from her past still held power over her fragile existence.

For two years, she struggled to be understanding and patient, striving to be generous and caring even toward those who didn't deserve her kindness. She knew she wasn't perfect; perfection was never a label she could claim. Despite her efforts to live and breathe, to savor experiences she had missed in the past, people consistently misunderstood her. The simple act of sharing a picture of herself enjoying a good meal led to accusations of irresponsibility.

Financial struggles forced her to turn to her family for help, each request for 300 pesos piercing her heart like a bullet. The hurtful words she endured in exchange for that money were a heavy burden, yet she never complained. She accepted blame for her circumstances, understanding their perspective even as she felt the weight of their judgments. Despite the pain, she remained grateful for those who extended a helping hand, even if it made her feel small. She tried to maintain a smile, to laugh with them, but with each passing day, she felt herself shrinking, losing her sense of self.

I observed her as she took a deep breath, as if she had been holding it in for far too long without realizing. The pain was evident, overwhelming this fragile soul. Though others perceived her as strong, the reality was quite the opposite—she was weak, emotionally and mentally exhausted.My fear intensified when I noticed the blade in her trembling hand, its shiny, sharp metal reflecting the despair within her. She shivered, trembled, and cried, the weight of her struggles too much to bear. I wanted to speak, to intervene, but my words remained trapped, unable to escape my mouth. She attempted to cut her wrist, but her hands shook uncontrollably, causing her to drop the blade. The intensity of her crying prevented her from continuing the desperate act. Suddenly, she stopped and scanned her surroundings. Anxiety gripped me, I knew what she was searching for—the rope in the right corner of the room.

"No!" I thought desperately, my heart racing as I understood her intentions. The rope lay nearby, catching her attention. I struggled to move, to intervene, but my body refused to respond. I attempted to utter words of comfort, but silence engulfed me. Helplessly, I watched her pick up the rope, the gravity of the situation paralyzing me. She began to hum, a haunting melody that echoed through the air, a stark reminder of the dreams she once harbored.

Her voice, once filled with promise, had been silenced years ago when the world extinguished her dream of becoming a singer. Tears welled up in my eyes.  I wished I could save her, but my immobilized body rendered me powerless.

I observed her approach a chair, securing the rope to the ceiling with meticulous care. It seemed as if she wanted to ensure there was no turning back this time. To my surprise, her gaze met mine, and for a moment, it felt like she knew I had been there all along. She offered a miserable smile, acknowledging my silent presence. I mouthed the word 'stop,' but she shook her head, a sad smile playing on her lips, as if conveying that nothing could save her now, that she had made up her mind.

I cried out, lashing against the invisible barrier restraining me. I wanted to run to her—to prevent the irreversible. She didn't have to do this. She could share her troubles, and I would listen. I would stay by her side. She just needed to hold on.

Tears streamed down my face as she hanged herself, kicking the chair away. My body felt frozen as I witnessed her desperate struggle with the rope. I tried to reach her, but an impenetrable glass wall separated us. Suddenly, I heard a sound, a chilling snap echoing from the ceiling. I thought it was my imagination, but as I surveyed the pitch-black surroundings, a faint light focused solely on her, illuminating her perfectly. It seemed to emanate from the ceiling.

It creaked again, the sound echoing in the dim room. I glanced at her, and my heart sank. She was running out of energy, no longer struggling. The fear gripped me; she could slip away any moment. The roof squeaked loudly, and in a surprising turn of events, the rope snapped. The girl hit the ground with a thud, and I raised my hands in prayer. In that desperate moment, I pleaded with a higher power, a plea laced with promises I never thought I'd make. "Please, God. Please. I don't pray or go to church a lot, but please. Please, just save her. Let her live, and I promise I'll be with her every time she needs somebody."

Relief washed over me as I heard her gasping for air, coughing loudly as life returned to her. "I'm here!" I exclaimed, my voice almost a scream. Watching her slowly stand, I felt goosebumps on the back of my neck when her eyes locked onto mine. Could she see me? It seemed that she could.

"I'm here. You are not alone," I reassured her, surprised by the strength in my voice. Walking towards her, I was met with the cruel reality of an invisible barrier, preventing me from reaching her.

"I'm on my own," she replied sadly.

"No, not at all. I'm here," I insisted, attempting to convince her. Slowly, she walked towards me, and a glimmer of hope flickered in my heart. Perhaps I could talk sense into her.

"Come," I urged, reaching out my hand. With one more step, she would be within my reach, but she stopped. She looked at my outstretched hand and smiled, that same sorrowful smile I had seen before.

"I wish I could, but I'm exhausted. I've had enough of this life," she uttered in a feeble voice.

"You can. Hold my hand, and I will help you," I pleaded, desperation and urgency evident in my voice.

"I want to!" she cried, tears cascading down her cheeks from one to the next.

"What's your name?" I asked. She halted her tears, fixing her gaze upon me. It seemed my question caught her off guard. I had a plan, uncertain if it would work, but I clung to the hope that it might. Perhaps, if I engaged her in conversation, she would forget the overwhelming despair, maybe she'd start to trust me, and reconsider.

"You have no idea?" she replied, shock etched across her face.

"My name is Maris. What's your name?" I softened my tone, hoping to establish a connection.

"I'm... I'm you. I'm Stella," she whispered.

"What?" I asked, bewildered by her answer.

"What?" she repeated.

"What did you—" we both began in unison, and I abruptly stopped. Glancing around, I discovered I was all alone in my room, facing the mirror. I clutched the rope, my left wrist bleeding profusely. As I looked at my own reflection, I grinned through tears. I wasn't alone. I had myself. I needed to be strong, at least for myself. I am not alone.