The Ripped Soul

It is late. 0445hrs to be precise. She is still awake.

Tired from hearing about drinking drunk nightly just to feel better, tired from hearing how people's judgement can affect someone so badly she feels like she's better off alone.. or dead. Tired of knowing that despite all the drama life has to offer, life's so much worse for people out there that have it far unimaginable.

And as she stands in the centre of the empty room, thoughts, temptations and feelings run through her and rape the very being of her soul until she screams for them to stop. But they run faster, and faster, and faster. Her dark tendencies get stronger. A flicker of a thought, a click of an image in her head of a noose, the feel in her legs of how it would be like to stand on a chair, the feel of the bedsheets around her neck. A flicker again, and it's gone.

She runs to get a drink of water. An image of spraying pesticide and poisoning her drink with eyedrops runs through her head. A blink of an eye, the image disappears.

She cries for the thoughts to stop. She slides down and lies on the floor. Tears roll, but she can't feel anymore. Mr. Whiskers licks her tears away. Don't cry, he says.

She gets up and goes to bed, for tomorrow would be another day.

Powerful, the mind is.