The Show (trigger warning)

We were getting close to the Glass Wall. The wind was howling in this vast land, there was only black dead grass beneath our bare feet and more dead things that seem to resemble little flowers. It was cold, so cold, but we were forced to wear only our underwear for the "special" people who paid to see us.


These people were on the other side of the glass. They're dressed formally in their suit and ties, and their satin and lace dresses. This was to make us feel more degraded, to remind us of our place. These people spent money to see us. The weak, The Mad Ones. They were curious. They wanted to see what we looked like - and how we are finally going to die. 


It was like an ancient event. Then, gladiators fight each other to their deaths and people scream 'Kill! Kill! Kill!'. This was far less action packed, but the spectators were there screaming 'Die! Die! Die!'. We were lined up like good schoolboys and schoolgirls, our blood flowing from our wrists, from our thighs, anywhere that a blade can reach, caused by self-mutilation. We are mad. Some of us were starting to sway, the meds kicking in. Some were shaking, not from the cold, but from overdose. Some were throwing up. And some were starting to collapse. Well, I, I am just very dizzy and my hair was flying wildly which annoyed the hell out of me. But I can still see clearly. 


I looked to my left, to the people watching. They held their chins up, with proud smirks and scowls of disgust on their faces. They think were fucked-up. I think they're more fucked up for wanting to watch us die. There were posts around them with posters of us designed like one of a bad 50s movie. "Beautiful Tragedy", written in blood-red ink, bold and wanting to bite you.


"Hey, move," the person behind me said with a tap on my shoulder. I was lost in my thoughts again. The person behind me was a bit younger than me, boy-faced. Boy-faced and young called a "Beautiful Tragedy". I walked forward, now being aware that we were getting fewer and fewer. The chatter was loud, whispers never sufficed to them, and they laughed and cheered for us. The violent winds never went away and the cold was starting to seep in deeper. I glanced back at the crowd. There I saw my face, wide-eyed, tears I didn't know was flowing down in streaks of black, my lips chapped and pale, reflected in the glass like a cruel mirror. Then I was next. 


I took one step forward, dangling my feet in the air. I felt like the cold finally defeated me. I was frozen in place, staring at the threatening white wall of fog in front of me then down to where I'll fall, white as well. Nobody but the dead knows what lies below. My eyes closed as I took deep breaths. I was truly afraid now, the numbness inside gone. The blood on my arms and thighs has long dried but the flow of my tears cannot be stopped. The crowd was shouting, and in my head their words were surrounding me, the letters and exclamation points molding around my body before closing in, squeezing my breath out of me, pushing my beating heart out.


"Jump! Jump! Jump!"

"Go, you fuck up!"

"You don't deserve to live!"

"Weakling!"


"Die!"

"Die!"

"Die!"


Everything...everything...closing on me. Then a whisper, "Do it. We don't have a choice. We never have and we never will. Do it. End it now." It was Boy-Face.

I looked back at him, and once I saw a gentle smile on his bleeding lips, I lost it and a sob broke from me. "Do it, I will follow you." I don't know if it was meant to comfort me in this messed up situation, but it did.


I managed to smile back at him.


Thinking of happy thoughts, perhaps like in Peter Pan it will help me fly, I walked to the edge of the Suicide Cliff and jumped to my death. I would never know if Boy-Face followed me.