Desperation

The eyes that opened up that morning looked calm with a shade of mania and bewilderment, as though she was searching for another pair of eyes to comfort her. Not finding them, she looked pleadingly at me with such sorrow in her eyes as they silently screamed for help. Her eyes were glazed over by fresh new tears as they rolled down her cheeks. It’s so easy to cry these days. There were so much anguish and despair. Everyday she wakes up thinking that one person will love her less. She held onto her blanket to feel the warmth because her body felt cold. Her right hand still ached. But she didn’t mind it. She tried making a fist and grimaced at the pain that shot up her arm. She opened up her hand again, flexing it slowly to see the extent of the damage she did to herself last night. It was OK. The skin around her knuckles were still pink and raw, but beginning to heal. The bruises were still there. At least the scars weren’t as obvious as cutting.

She said that dreams always walk hand in hand with anxiety and confusion. And this was her part in dealing with her anxiety and confusion. She laughed at how cornered she sounded, like a sleek-furred fox caught in a foothold trap waiting for the dreaded hunter to pierce the forest calm with the loud explosion of a rifle. It was desperation, just as the fox would chew its leg off to escape death. She slowly got up and tried brushing her long black hair with a wooden comb. It took twice the effort to do it because her index and middle fingers were swollen and throbbing.