Twisted

T W I S T E D

Help me.

The glinting blade shone under the shaded lamp as Delilah’s resigned gaze watch it trace her scarred skin. Lightly circling the red tinged lines, her lips slanted down. Then the blade dug deeper into the shaking canvas she once called skin, and dark liquid spurted from reopened cut, staining her white tee. Pain. Where was it? The once stimulating feeling that made her scream and wrench became a numbed burn that reminded Delilah of the tears that now dried her bony cheekbones and the harsh curses that once came from her destroyed voice box.

Help me.

All the screams waiting to escape, and all the pleas waiting to be said–Delilah stared at her imaginary monsters with eyes rimmed black and red. All their words repeated in her mind–words that had once outraged her were now little replies to the voices eating her soul. They were right. She was every girl’s nightmare–a screwed up mutation of what she once was, of what she would always be.

Help me.

The little spark of humanity clawed to be taken, shouting for a little shed of redemption that was always left denied. Instead, the corners of her lips inched up to form a smile that everyone brought. That’s it, she thought, remembering the smooth words that escaped the tip of her tongue with excuses and phrases that everyone nodded to. I’m fine. I’ okay. None of them saw the scars decorating her arms nor noticed her diminishing black curls. None of them could be bothered.

Help me.

Delilah laughed, or could it even be recognized as a laugh anymore? It was empty and shallow that could match a doll’s electronic giggles. Could it be considered real when everyone has believed her chuckles and snorts? Her fingers traced her wet arm, humming as it continued to stain the sheets. They told her to get over it. They told her to be normal, yet the screams and cries at the back of her mind told her otherwise–they listened to her tears and despair and told her that it was only the first step to a threatening spiral never-ending.

Help me.

They were calling for her. Someone was calling for her–telling her to end it, ordering her to give it up. Her breath caught up, hand drifting to the blade…to join them, to join the depths of darkness where maybe her screams can finally be heard. Another hand gripped the pillowcase behind her, and Delilah bit her lips as a wave of pain shattered her arm, pulsing through her veins. Darkness slowly invaded her sight as her back crashed onto the cushions of her soon-to-be deathbed. Peace… will I finally receive it? I’m fine…I’m fine…I’m…

Help me. Save me. Don’t trust my twisted lies.