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"The Blindness"

Something's been spreading into the eyes and ears, maybe even the mouth's, of most of the people around her. She can yell all she wants but it seems no one can even see or hear her. Tears will not stop pouring down her cheeks under her mask, the mask of a smile. She had noticed her friends ignoring her issues and blank expressions, the neon blue earplugs that reside in her ears that no one notices. She thinks that is she blocks out the world and watches it pass her by as she stands still, something that seems so distant maybe she'll get it back, she seems to stare at the floor when she walks and whisper some words to her friend but her friend changes the topic and ignores her seeminly invisible words. Her speaking has diminished and is becoming silent more and more each day that passes. The remarks that hurt the most, "slut" "whore" "useless" "retard". More and more she believes those words. She looks at the scissors and smiles, some one who listens and reads her body as a work of art, not something that isn't clear as a wine glass. She cracks and shatters gripping the scissors and sitting in the bathtub. Slice. The first one in over three years. She cringes in something new and fresh. She reads the the lines across her arm, crimson spreads over her wrist and arm the water thinning it down the drain. She feels relieved and exhales, she is complete again, once more.

Days pass before she needs it again. She needs to cut once more, deeper maybe it'll last longer. She screams in her head, she feels hatred for herself. She's not good enough anymore. Everything that happens at her house is her fault. Again she takes the scissors as she gets home. No one is home today, she smiles as she stares into the mirror. Her face is darkened and her eyes seemed to be glazed over in crimson lust. Rolls up her sleeve before placing the blade to her wrist. The vein seems to have a heartbeat of it's own, her actual heart racens. Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice. Five open wounds glissen at her pupils. Blood pushes through the wound and forms a thick red bubble, bursts open and pours down her arm. She's draining the pain out. Slice. Slice. Two more even deeper wounds lay across the upper wrist, blood pours into her hand and down her arm. The mirror was clear and empty. Her finger traces along it, there she wrote: "The blindness." She fell to the hard floor as death gripped and pulled at her. She smiled at death. She then died. Her parents came home and went in her room. They cried and screamed. What does this mean? Why? They read the words "The blindess" they don't understand. Even years after they don't understand. The hallway she stood in is still filled, although the place where she stood is untouched. They don't notice her gone missing, they don't even know she's gone.

This is the blindness.