Sad Short Stories

𝔐𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔶 ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔪𝔞𝔰

The sky is dark outside, yet the apartment is glowing brightly. She never liked the dark. It always reminded her how lonely the color black is in itself. Everything gets enveloped in something dark and heavy, leaving the area unknown of its containments.

It's terrifying.

Sometimes it's not just the dark itself.

It's what the dark holds.

It's the fear of the unknown.

Sadly, in Harriet's life, no matter how brightly lit her apartment was, her mind was void of anything bright.

She can't help it. With her daughter in a brain surgery with a 96% chance of failure, and her husband overseas with no contact with her, and a son that died in the military, her life seems dark.

Her heart, Black.

Her brain, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time.

She can't help it, when she looks at her phone, feeling like she wants to smash it on the ground and break all contact with people she knows.

Because, in reality, they don't care. Her friends don't care. Her moms don't care about her, an illegitimate grown woman. Her daughter is probably dead right now, and her husband just couldn't care less.

She can't help it, when she starts scratching at her walls, in hopes of one day her neighbors might have the heart to knock on her door and ask her what's wrong.

She can't help it, tearing at her old drawings she'd once been so proud of.

She can't help it, staring at the sharp edge of her knives while washing the dishes.

She can't help but...touch it. Gliding her finger across the sharp texture.

It's beautiful.

The way the small triangles cut the weak barrier on her finger that protect her blood.

It's beautiful.

The way that red liquid oozes from its cage.

It's free.

A lot unlike her.

She wishes she could smile a little wider. Laugh, a little longer. Communicate a lot better, without the constant ring in her head that Screams in agony; "I can't take it. Let's go".

It's funny, the way the world works.

You see celebrities, all happy and smiling, but you know deep down they're screaming and trying to come out of their perfectly made mold.

It's just, no one's willing to admit it.

We're all cowards.

Cowards who will look up to these fake masks and call them "perfect".

We all know they're the farthest from perfect, but just to fill That empty void in our hearts, we convince ourselves they are.

What a sad world we live in.

So, freaking, funny.

Harriet laughed, clenching the knife and holding on tightly, throwing the metal at the light of her kitchen.

Darkening her area.

The outside of her window is not that different from the inside now.

Not that different from her brain.

Not that different from anything really.

The girl with brown hair drops the knife and sits on the floor, her legs suddenly becoming so... oh so heavy...

She looks at the knife she'd dropped. Her first thought being that she could  slit her wrists and open up blood vessels, bleeding to her death.

She then decided against it.

She didn't want to die, having people calling her a coward for running away from life with suicide.

She smiled and laid down on the cold hard floor.

She hates how welcoming the coldness is to her.

She hates it, since she knows she'd rather me hugged at this time.

Just a hug.

Just two long arms, wrapping around her cold, frail figure. Telling her "it'll be alright. I'm here.", while softly planting their warm lips on her forehead in a sweet manner.

A hug, as warm as the hot coca her grandmother would make for her on Christmas when it was cold and snowing.

A hug to keep her warm from the coldness she feels from the apartment.

It's snowing, she guesses, seeing a few white dots flying across her window that she can barely see from the floor.

She smiles.

She's cold, but she smiles.

Her body is freezing. Her mind is stopping. It's stopping on one thought. "momma, mommy, granny!! Lookie!! I made a snow man!!" little Harriet screamed to call out her parents

"Merry Christmas."