She was a perfectly happy girl. Bubbly, kind, outgoing yet quiet at times, and pretty much every good trait known to man.
At least, that was what her façade told people, the people too naïve to notice that certain dullness in her eyes, or that she never wore short-sleeves, shorter skirts, or shorts, only long, winter-esque clothes.
She used to be happy, content, and her writs used to be cut-free. But then came the day something inside her snapped, taking away her happy innocence, and unleashed that hungry, foul monster called depression, making her another victim.She started cutting, and after awhile she couldn’t stip. It was like a drug, once you start you can’t stop. The pain was bittersweet, so bad yet so good. She loved that the more she passed out, the greater the chance she would never wake up again, and was sad when she did.
However, not all were naïve, and that handful of people who found out about her depression tried to help her. But to no avail. The more they reached towards her, the further she shied away.Her nature of pushing help away was out of good will, however. She wanted to shield those she loved from the horrors of what she did, and wanted to hide the extent of what she did from those who knew.
And she kept it this way, up until the bitter end when the blade went too deep and the pills went down her throat in too great a number.
