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16
In the time that she waited during the following week, Melanie became more anxious and impatient. She had begun to cut her wrist more regularly and deeply, causing more damage than ever before. She had begun to scribe words on her wrists now - the first being “Failure”, scrawled in dense, capital letters around her wrist, some of it not covered by her new watch, one with a brown leather band.
She didn't stop at her wrists this time either, there were now cuts on her legs and arms, some being purposeful, others just conveniently placed in order to draw large amounts of blood. The word fragile laced her right wrist, in big neat and tidy words. She swore to herself many times during this week that she would never wear short sleeves again – and that the scars she'd be causing herself would prevent that from being a reality for a good long while.
Other obscenities and words were also etched into her skin, and on the palm of her left hand, a flower, growing up her wrist, and curling around her arm like wild vines in a botanic Her arms looked as though they were covered in tattoos that were poorly considered, ill conceived, and poorly executed.
More concerning, she had passed many times becoming disorientated and scared. She could feel that she was losing control, and did not even attempt to face society. Lethargy contained her within its embrace, and tightened its grip.
Many painful memories of segregation, isolation and seclusion from her childhood came back to haunt her during this time alone in her apartment, writing and listening to music, stopping only to cut herself and consume the very little food she knew she needed to live on.
She was losing weight.
When the time did come for her to reveal herself to society once more, it was raining, and she left the apartment, heading straight for her car, at which she quickly became frustrated at because the thing wouldn't start.
She despaired, trying not to resort to cutting herself once again, and went back inside, producing some money hidden from within an old purse somewhere at the back of her wardrobe, her concealed emergency money.
She stepped outside and began to walk towards the train stop. She boarded the train and rode it into the city, getting off at the end of the line. As she got off, oblivious to those around her, she laughed in her mind at all the people surrounding her.
Everyone has to be insane in his or her own personal way. I reckon that everyone is insane, and that there is not one person that does not have some part of their sanity at least within question at some moments of their life. It's just that some people aren't as good as concealing it than others. Don't blame me if you don't want to believe this, but it's true, and I want you to remember it -
EVERYONE IS INSANE.
She began to walk into the general direction of the publisher's office, but didn't really care whether she got there on time or not. Every single tall building that she passed was another opportunity wasted. Her eyes pivoted from each structure in a bewildered gaze, in awe at every accessible summit, each time eager to get up there and just fall.
She was at breaking point when she reached the publishing company's office, albeit somehow twenty minutes early. It was by far the tallest building she had seen yet in the sprawling filth that she was wading through - a city at the mercy of parliamentary members who most probably had their own agendas relating to personal gain and helping their mates.
More than ever she wanted to climb up to the highest point and let go - in order to fall.
Fall and die.
She sighed deeply, as if to try and release some sort of tension from her mind, but it didn't work. Instead, she entered the building.