She sat their silently with that exact same miserable look on her face. They released her from the hospital weeks ago, yet she kept that band around her slit-covered wrist because she knew that despite what they said, she was not better. Deep inside she understood. She understood damn well that artificial happiness was nothing more than consumption, sprinkled with false hope. Those anti-depressants only made her worse off, but they wouldn’t listen. They insisted. No matter what she said, all she accomplished was arguments with her broken family in her broken home that was shattered with the sound of a banshee’s piercing scream. A mirror falling apart and all she could see, was herself. In so many pieces and shapes. She realized that no matter what, none of them, could see what she lives through. They only see the outside. A pretty yet pain-stricken face. She had to live on the inside. Seeing the hell that she walks in day by day even when her eyes are closed and streaming with tears. There never seemed to be an escape. It got to the extent where it seemed that only the feeling of sharp, cold steel could distract her from her chaotic reality. She wouldn’t do it for attention. In fact, she would cover anywhere the cuts were, and sometimes put them places people wouldn’t see. Having hit rock-bottom, she only wanted to make sure she could prevent others from the same fate. So why wouldn’t she simply end it? Well, because people like her, they’re just like us when it comes to fearing death. Just, they also fear life. It’s a terrifying re-occurrence of despair that is seemingly interminable.