The September rain was always beautiful to her. The cool air smelled sharp and hollow, and it was almost painful to breath in. But she never complained. It was beautiful.
She liked to wake up at midnight and stand outside in the middle of December, wearing only a dark pair of combats boots, athletic shorts, and a woolen sweater. She loved how quiet it was, with the snow falling and the moon glowing brightly and not a single footprint to be seen. She could almost imagine that she was completely alone.
She liked the cold and the solitude of nighttime. She loved being alone. She thought it was poetic.
It was the warmth of the sun that she could not stand. She hated crowds and noise. Bright colors drove her mad.
She was completely and irreparably different. She didn't try to be. She didn't want attention. She wanted to be utterly and absolutely alone.
Eventually, people got the message. And she was happy.
For a time.
She didn't think happiness suited her face, nor did she believe scarlessness suited her wrists.
The darkness that once made her happy now constricted her, and the aloneness now made her lonely.
But in the end she just felt empty.
She hacked into her arm like a madman, and perhaps she was. She was desperately trying to convince herself that she was not empty. That the blood meant she could still think and feel and she was not broken.
But she was.
No one knew it, of course. No one paid any attention to her. They knew she didn't want it. She didn't matter to them.
Maybe things would have been different had someone tried to befriend her. Maybe she would have just pushed them away.
But it doesn't matter. Her story ends, as it must.
With a cold smile on her face, she pushed the razor deeper, trying to cut out the darkness inside of her, but only succeeding in cutting out the light.