Gone

They all ask, "What happened to the girl we used to know?"
I reply, "I killed her a long time ago."
Yes, I became a heartless bitch.
But only because it's what I had to do to survive, though I don't know what I thought I was going to miss.

I remember the day she died.
She was screaming on a bathroom floor, couldn't tell the difference between blood and lies.
I looked down at her, feeling nothing.
She looked at me in wild desperation, eyes in suffering, throat whimpering, hands reaching out for something.

There was only one thing I could do for her.
Bending down, I pulled the knife from my heart, not even flinching as the pain from the wound began to burn.
I calmly hushed her cries, stroked her damp hair back and kissed her eyes.
I quietly slit her throat, watched as she died, her soul betrayed relief while the light in her sockets whispered goodbye.

I didn't cry. She was born again in me. But she never was the same.
She couldn't feel anything anymore, not after her own personal hell came.
It's better this way. At least I think it is.
After all, in the end all her name is a line of letters on a fucking casualty list.