Introvert

6

'Your words were always meant to break me

So I’ll close the ears of my heart

And let denial be in charge for eternity' ~Unknown

||Shyanna||

The night, as always, goes fast, and in the morning I am in a frantic rush to leave in time. I wake up too late, and my eyes are still groggy, feet still uncoordinated as I hug mum tight and scoop five handfuls of dry Coco Pops into my waiting mouth. I quickly brush my teeth as I leave, throwing the brush back inside at the last moment, a parting statement staying tucked inside of me forever.

I am too late to walk, so I end up hauling myself onto my bike, pedalling fast as my bag beats against my back. The cool air wakes me up steadily, and I end up risking my life halfway there to brush my hair. With my hands off of the handles. The risk is monumental, but I've done this sort of thing before, and it's always been alright.

What is not alright is the fact my dream keeps flying into my head, assaulting me in the same way the hairbrush is. I hated last night's dream, not because I have forgotten it, but because I haven't. It was dark, and evil, and it made my throat close up and tears track my cheeks. And, frankly, I may or may not have gotten up in the middle of the night to vomit. It was too vivid, too painful, and I dislike my brain for allowing it to happen. 

I swallow hard as I pedal, making sure to keep the bike on track, but also making sure I don't miss any knots in my hair.

~Dream Flashback~

Blood. Blood is everywhere, darkness nipping around in my brain, blood dripping on my skin, knife dropped to the floor in a moment when the hormones racing to protect me were too strong. It is darker now than any night, darker because my heart is aching to die, because my demons are not only coming to play, but coming to die. Because when they die, I die. The human race is a form of demon we have yet to abolish from our minds. We say ghosts are scarier, but they are the echo of the evils we have put forth.

The redness is slick, warm and wet and dripping, the scent of copper and rusted metal sending y screams from me, beaten from me. Although I caused this, although my own pain is my own fault, the screaming refuses to stop.

I know if I wait longer, mum will be back. She will appear and stitch me up again and she'll hide the knives from me like every time I've done this, but I can't take it, I can't take it, I can't take it. This time is different. My heart is pounding, ears streaming, blood pouring from the wound in my arm. I am hopeless, dumb, stupid, silent. 

Nobody cares, nobody cares, die, nobody cares. Just give up already.

The haziness of my eyes takes me onto a whole new platform of terror, arms bleeding as goosebumps appear, racing across my skin. It is cold in this room, where there has been no heating for weeks. Cold not just because of the lack of electric heaters, but the lack of life. I am already dead, have been dead from the moment I was alive. My demons are alive, and they're waiting for my demise, so they can end themselves.

The second my eyes settle on the wound, I become a shrieking, wailing mess of crying and tears and screaming, and suddenly I am not alone. My eyes look up, fogged with tears and unconsciousness, standing on a precipice that is dangerously close to death, and the form of a boy makes me cry harder. It is a lean boy, a boy who I cannot see properly now my eyes are dying, and all I can think is please kill me, do it now. I can't do this any more. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this. Who is he why is he here why why why?

And then I black out, tears streaming, blood flowing onto the floor as an angry yell alerts me to his movement, but I cannot see it. I can only feel as his body leans over mine, frantic beeping alerting me that he is calling someone. The darkness is swallowing me, and the last thing I see is one strand of dark hair as it slides over a crying eye.

~Dream Flashback Over~

I swallow bile as I clamp my hands down on the handle bars, trying not to vomit again. I can deal with this. I survived once, I can do it again. I take one look to my arm, the scar gone but not forgotten, laying there like a leaden weight, and feel myself become dizzy with panic.

No. Not today, not today. Please. Not today. I am not dying today, refuse to. I will live through this. My life is happier now than ever, my mother is just forgiving me. I will not give in to the ache in my wrists. I will not. I will not.

Even so, I have to grip the handlebars tighter to make sure I am not tempted to scratch into my arms. 

All I need to do today is find a way to talk to Niall, find a way to ask him why he is talking to me without sounding like a hypocrite. The very thought makes bile rise again. I can't talk to anyone, much less act happy about it. Today is one of the days I want to spend silent. I want to spend it curled up watching a terrible movie and feeling the itching ache fade. I want to be better than this, want to be better than the demons that have slowly evacuated over time.

You are okay. You are okay, now. You do not need to die. You need to talk. Do it for yourself. 

And whilst I know today will be a hard day, possibly the most difficult since the End Year, I know I can get through it. I can conquer this the way I conquer everything; with a head held high and tears on the brink of releasing. All I need is help.

||Niall||

Philosophy is my least favourite subject, not because I'm bad at it but because Shyanna is ridiculously hot in Philosophy and it's unfair. As childish as that sounds, it's true. Every single lesson she'll turn up smiling like a Cheshire cat, cheeks red with the cold and shirt rucked up around her waist to shield her from the chill of winter. For people in Spain, this wouldn't be a problem, because it's never fucking cold. Here, it's cold in the summer, so basically, fuck everything.

This is one of the few lessons I share with Shyanna, though, and it's one of her favourites. I get to see her flushed with excitement and the thought of saying unnecessarily deep things, and that makes up for the sexual frustration. 

I'm fourth in the room, and for the first time in two years, Shyanna isn't the first. I immediately feel myself go into lockdown, bones clenching and eyes closing as I try and figure out why on earth she isn't here. Is she sick? Is she hurt? An image flashes over my eyelids suddenly, and I have to swallow down vomit and hold back tears. 

Two years or so ago, before I admitted I loved Shyanna and after I started liking her, it became apparent she was distinctly unhappy. She stopped speaking altogether, started wearing long-sleeved shirts and I saw her cry a lot. One time, as I'd walked into the room, Zayn had hugged me and told me a secret. She'd tried to kill herself, and as he'd been cycling through the neighbourhood towards one of his sister's friends' houses, he'd heard a scream. The scream was loud and wracked with sobs, and he instantly began to walk into the house he'd heard the crying from. When he'd walked into the unlocked house, he'd heard screaming and the sudden squelch of flesh. 

When he ran up the stairs, he'd seen her. I can't imagine the scene. I only know there was too much blood, that she was hissing something about the fact the cut should have killed her, but didn't. He'd called 999 and we'd never talked of it again. I'm pretty sure he cried.

The thought of Shyanna being in that position again makes me want to break down. I know her too well now, know how she acts around her friends the few times I've watched them from the library. Her eyes scrunch when she laughs, lips pulling wide and thick. Her laugh is like music, and I want to play the instrument. I want to be the strings pulled to make her laugh.

I want nothing more than to love Shyanna and be loved by Shyanna, for I know she loves wholly and completely. Anna and Kristy are in this class as well, often are concerned for her well-being, but they aren't here yet. She loves them, you can see it in the way she smiles and laughs, the way her touches linger and don't pull away. 

Shyanna Rockley is beautiful and hurt and broken. She is eloquent and elegant and intelligent. More than anything, she is the sun I knowingly and happily revolve around, and if my sun went away, my planet would stop spinning.

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