Just Thoughts

by PonyAmorous

Rating: teen
Tags: Equestria Girls, Suicide / Self Harm, Twilight Sparkle (EqG), Wallflower Blush, Dark
Length: 8483

Twilight Sparkle is fine. She would never intentionally hurt herself. They're just morbid thoughts. Nothing to worry about. She's not suicidal, or even depressed! But Wallflower might be. Should she say something? Is it any of her business?

Twilight Sparkle is fine. She would never intentionally hurt herself. They're just morbid thoughts. Nothing to worry about. She's not suicidal, or even depressed! But Wallflower might be. Should she say something? Is it any of her business?

And what is it about the scars on Wallflower's arms that are so...fascinating?

Published 2020-02-24 10:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2020-02-28 07:56:22 UTC

Ideation

I could leap right in front of that train before anyone could stop me. Then SPLAT! Quite a bit of mess though, and not great salvageability.

I wait patiently on the yellow safety line as the lumbering steel behemoth of the 4:00 pm light rail car pulls into the station to take me home from the city library. I close my eyes and let the wind rush over me as the train's brakes screech to a halt. I quickly step aboard and find a seat. As it pulls out again, I stare out the window at the tops of the skyscrapers and imagine leaping off one.

Pretty much the same drawbacks, just shifted to a vertical reference frame.

Not that I actually have any intention of killing myself. I'm not suicidal. I'm not even depressed. My life is actually pretty good, all things considered. It's just the occasional intrusive morbid thought. Like when you're standing in a high place near an edge, and suddenly start thinking about what would happen if you stepped off. Or driving on the freeway and realizing that with a simple jerk of the wheel, you could ram straight into the center median or into oncoming traffic. You're not going to, it's just a little flight of imagination. A quick little cause and effect simulation in your mind.

I read up on it, and it turns out it's actually a lot more common than people think. A lot of people are just too afraid to admit it. They find it disturbing or think it makes them weird. I'm not bothered by it though. I find them almost...amusing I guess? Which makes me wonder if I'm categorizing them right, because a large part of the definitions I've found seem to be about them causing distress, and the subject fearing they'll somehow follow through on it. But I know there's a zero percent chance of that happening. That there's a world of difference between ideation and action. So I continue on with one of my favorite commuting pastimes, trying to figure out the "best" way to commit suicide.

There are five categories in which to score.

Accessibility/Ease of execution: The logistics of some methods, such as falling into a volcano or launching oneself out an airlock into space, are prohibitively difficult, while others are astoundingly easy for anyone serious enough.

Painlessness: Pretty self-explanatory.

Mess: It's important to recognize that you're going to leave behind a corpse, and somebody is going to have to deal with that. Killing yourself and forcing someone to clean up your remains is inconsiderate enough as it is. The least one can do is try to make it a bit easier by not leaving too much splatter over too large an area.

Salvageability: This one is quite important to me. I'm an organ donor, as everyone should be, and I'd want to make sure that as much of me as possible could be recovered and used to save lives, or be used for scientific research. Honestly, if anyone thinks they have a use for a piece of me when I'm dead, they're welcome to it. I certainly won't have any need for it.

FInally, Style: A hard to pin down, subjective category relating to how "dramatic", "cool", "poetic", or "original" a method is. This pretty much always conflicts with the other categories in a big way. Anything that would be remotely original, or at least not done to death (no pun intended) already, is almost by definition going to rate poorly in the first category, and almost certainly in the second as well, else more people would have tried it. Humans have been offing themselves for all of history.

It's quite hard to find something that scores well across all or even most categories. Drifting off with alcohol and sleeping pills would be a top contender for ease, painlessness, and low mess, and is even decent on style. Unfortunately, it's pretty much guaranteed to wreck your organs beyond usability. Similar problems with exsanguination (along with the thought of slashing veins making my skin crawl a bit). I know a lot depends on how fast medical personnel can reach you, so you could possibly call them while in progress, but that's toying with the chance of failing the attempt entirely.

Eating a bullet is one of the best in that category. It's instant and does minimal damage to any other organs. Possibly the worst in terms of mess, though, unless you considerately cover the room in plastic first. There's also the issue of obtaining a gun. Even if you're of legal age to buy one, and in a location where doing so is fairly easy, unless you're already a collector or competitive shooter or something, that's the kind of sudden shift in behavior that sends up a giant red flag to those around you, as well as any halfway competent mental health professional worthy of being called such. Unless of course you're "lucky" enough to live with an idiot who keeps an unsecured firearm around the house.

As much as I try to find something else this time, it looks like hanging wins the technical score count again. Assuming you do it right and break the neck instead of asphyxiating, it has all the organ preservation and instantaneity benefits of the bullet, with significantly less mess. It also doesn't require much in the way of materials. A rope, a strong enough support to hang it on, a quick tutorial on knot tying, and a half-dozen to a dozen foot drop depending on body weight. Definitely the most friendly to those on a budget.

Unfortunately, it's just so...boring! So trite and uninspired. I don't know why, but I always place it last in the style category. I know that's the least important category, that it hands down wins the score count with all the others, that there's a reason it's been a staple in suicide and "humane execution" throughout history. My brain knows all that, but still, I know which one I want to win with my heart.

For some reason, I've always been partial to jumping. Something about free fall just speaks to me. Maybe it's that wonderful tingling "zero G" feeling in the stomach. Maybe it's the wind whipping past my face. Maybe it's just my inner physics nerd that loves those simple kinematics equations. I don't think I'm just an adrenaline junky like Rainbow Dash. True, my heart is pounding harder by the end of those free fall carnival rides, but when falling I'm not gripped by fear or tension. I'm relaxed. Peaceful.

I remember going to a fair a ways back where they had a particularly unusual attraction for the brave and daring. They'd strap you into what was essentially a chair, haul you up about 200 feet into the air with a crane, and just let you go to land on your back in a large net. I still remember the world growing suddenly silent, save for the sound of wind rushing past my ears and whipping my hair into a frenzy. The freeing feeling of weightlessness. The people in front of me in line had screamed in terrified glee, but I had just smiled. It had only lasted 3.6 seconds, but they were probably the most serene seconds of my life.

Maybe I should look into skydiving at some point. Though they probably make you do a lot of assisted training jumps with an instructor, so it would be quite a while before I could enjoy that isolation and just fall in peace.

I dismiss the thought and grab my bag as I see my stop approaching. I've got a hefty stack of engineering, history, and a little light fiction to delve into once I get home. The only reason I don't read it on the train is that I'd almost certainly get so absorbed that I'd miss my stop.

Later that evening, the alarm I set goes off and I reluctantly close my book and crawl into bed, knowing that if I don't, I could easily spend all night reading and completely wreck my sleep cycle. It would be far from the first time. As my head rests on the pillow, I imagine the bed and floor beneath me dropping away and sending me plummeting through an endless open sky. I feel my whole body relax and begin drifting off to sleep.

Author's Note

Just an idea that got lodged in my brain and became so distracting I had to write it out. May possibly end up being the most fucked up fic I write.

Comorbidity

My legs dangle off the edge of the roof and kick freely in the open air as I take another bite of my sandwich. This is my secret lunch spot. I usually eat in the cafeteria with my friends, but every once in a while my introvert instincts take over and I find myself searching for some solitude. I'll make some excuse about needing to get some extra work done (usually at least partially true) and slip up here for a bit.

As far as I know, there's no explicit rule barring students from coming up here, though that's probably because all the roof access doors are usually locked anyway. It was about three months ago that I found the secret route up here. I had been wandering a section of the third floor that nobody ever seemed to go down, which wasn't surprising as there were no classrooms or lockers, just a dead end with a small single occupant bathroom and an access door. From the general condition of the hallway, it looked like the janitorial staff had mostly forgotten or abandoned this place, though somebody was clearly keeping the bathroom somewhat clean, even if not as regularly as those elsewhere in the school. I suppose the almost complete lack of foot traffic meant it didn't need as much attention anyway. The real discovery was the broken lock on the access door that lead up here. My secret spot.

I had quickly found the perfect corner, away from any entrances or exits below, and with just the right placement of vegetation so that I couldn't easily be seen from the ground. Now, whenever I want, I can sneak up here for a bit of peace and quiet while I enjoy the view and the feeling of my feet hanging far above the ground.

I finish my last bite of sandwich and pack up my bag. The lunch period is about to end, so it's time to get moving. I have to pee though, so I decide to actually make use of the all but forgotten bathroom for once. But when i go to open the door, the locked handle rattles in my hand. I hear a sharp gasp from within, followed by a frantic voice.

"O-Occupied! Just a second!"

There are more sounds. Frantic shuffling and the sound of a running faucet mix with what I think is muted cursing. Without warning, the door flies open and a girl with forest green hair rushes past me, a tight grip around the sleeve of her yellow sweater, and disappears around the corner. I stand there for a moment, surprised that somebody else actually knows about and uses this bathroom, before heading in. Before I can get down to business though, something catches my eye near the sink. A small crimson streak clings to the side of the faucet. I look closer.

Blood.

I look around and spot a similar spot on the ground between the sink and the door. I think back a few seconds to the girl with a tight grip on her forearm. I'm fairly certain that if I looked closely, I'd find one or two drops in the hallway outside.

Oh, boy.

***

It's a good thing I can pass most of these classes in my sleep, because my thoughts are thoroughly occupied for the rest of the day. That girl, she looked familiar. What was her name again? Something-flower? Where had I seen her? Right. That incident with the memory stone. Wallflower Blush. That was it. After everything had been resolved, she had just kind of faded back into the background. Not through any Equestrian magic this time, just a natural talent for avoiding notice. I think Sunset may have been trying to strike up more of a relationship with her, but as far as I knew she barely interacted with anyone else.

Apparently, she had a secret spot of her own, and it wasn't for eating lunch. I think back to those crimson spots in the bathroom and her ever present long sleeved yellow sweater, and the flesh on my arms gives an involuntary sympathetic shudder. It didn't take a forensic genius to put the pieces together.

The question is, what should I do about it? Should I even be concerning myself with this at all? It's not like it's any of my business what someone else does with or to their own body. If I were in her position, I certainly wouldn't appreciate some busybody butting in. As long as I–she isn't hurting anyone else, who really has the right to lecture her about it?

No, that's not right. This is supposed to be one of those things where you step up and say something, isn't it? A seemingly endless stream of public service announcements, school assemblies, and 'very special episodes' of television programming had hammered that point over and over again.

Don't be a narc, Twilight.

No, I should definitely do something. Say something to someone. That's the right thing to do. Why? Because self-harm could potentially escalate to a risk of suicide. And that's bad because...because...why? I had always struggled with that part. My moral framework had always included full bodily autonomy, including the right for individuals to choose to end their lives. As long as it was a free and informed choice. Of course, what exactly constitutes "free and informed" is pretty up for debate. Some would argue that any desire to end one's own life makes them not of sound mind by definition and thus incapable of making any kind of free and informed decision, though I find that a convenient and fallacious line of reasoning to reach a pre-selected conclusion.

Still, I know there's a difference between a hospice patient choosing self-euthanasia, and a troubled adolescent wracked with stress, anxiety, hormones, and a plethora of possible neurochemical disorders that might just be expressing for the first time. With plenty of ways for a sudden mood swing to drown the world in hopelessness, suicidality becomes an acute condition, rather than a free exercise in autonomy. One that will pass in time, and leave the subject glad they didn't act on it. So it's at least worth trying to delay. At best, they get better. At worst, they're truly committed and try again later.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. I don't actually know that Wallflower wants to kill herself, just that she (probably) cuts herself. B doesn't necessarily have to follow from A. I don't know for sure why she does it, but that's usually a sign of severe depression, isn't it? Or at least some kind of underlying emotional issue, right? And that is why I should do something. Not because of the symptom, but because of the cause. When somebody is hurting, physically or emotionally, you help them. That's simple.

Okay, but how?

What do I actually do? Go snitch to a school counselor? Somehow that still feels wrong. What if she's not depressed at all, and this is all a big overreaction? What if she's just...a little different. A little morbid, like me? True, it's still not the healthiest way to express oneself, but if I were her, I'd hate to be dragged through endless therapy sessions, tying up and wasting resources needed by people with actual problems, just because somebody jumped to conclusions and made a big deal out of nothing.

I need more information. I'm going to have to talk to Wallflower myself. My stomach knots at the thought. I hate confrontation.

***

This is a terrible idea. I should abandon this plan immediately.

I ignore the thought and take another step towards Wallflower, whose back is currently turned to me as she rummages through her locker. I take a deep breath and finally summon the nerve to speak.

"Hey, Wallflower?"

She jumps, whirls around, and fixes me with a stare, as if anybody addressing her is wildly unusual.

"W-What?"

"Um, I was wondering If I could ask you something. I-In private a mean." She glances around, sizes me up with clear apprehension, and gives a cautious nod. "R-Right, um, over here." I lead her back to the dead end, hoping she doesn't change her mind and decide to bolt once she figures out where we're heading. Fortunately, she follows me all the way into the bathroom where we can talk privately.

"So...Twilight Sparkle, was it? What do you want?" Wallflower asks, a bit snappish. I can tell she's uncomfortable with having someone else in this personal sanctum of hers.

"Right. I-I just wanted to know...if you're...okay?"

"What?"

God, I sound like an idiot. What am I doing?

"You know, if you're...doing alright?"

I let my gaze drift over to her wrist. She follows where I'm looking and jerks it away behind her back defensively, fixing me with a glare.

"I don't know what you're trying to imply, but I'm fine. Not that that's really any of your business."

"It's just—"

"Just what?" Her glare intensifies, daring me to make the accusation.

I thought something like this might happen, so I prepared something to cut through the whole forceful denial part. I pull a spray bottle out of my bag and give a few firm shakes before spraying around the sink and surrounding area. Then I hit the lights. The dark room is filled with the bright blue glow of the luminol solution. The sink shines like a beacon.

"Chlorine based bleaches may render blood stains invisible to the eye, but they'll still remain detectable. To properly destroy the remaining hemoglobin, you need a peroxide or other oxygen based bleaching agent."

I don't mention the numerous substances that can cause a false positive for a luminol reaction, such as fecal matter or residual bleach left on a surface. Honestly, it would be shocking if any surface in a bathroom didn't light up. Forensically, this little stunt was nothing more than sheer theatrics. Wallflower probably doesn't know that, though.

As the glow fades and I flick the lights back on, I watch the mortified expression change across her face as she quickly realizes the futility of continued denial. It quickly solidifies back into the aggressive glare of a cornered animal.

"What do you want?!"

I flinch in surprise at her sudden outburst.

"I-I don't–"

"Why'd you bring me over here instead of minding your own damn business? You looking to mock me? Lecture me? Blackmail me? Threaten to rat me out to everyone? Are you one of those bitches that get off on kicking people when they're down?"

"N-NO! Absolutely Not!"

"Then you're one of those insufferably condescending do-gooders who think it's up to them to "fix" every person they come across so they can go break a hand patting themselves on the back and jilling off to how much of fucking saint they are for helping all those sad sack losers?"

"NO! I-I didn't come to criticize or lecture you!"

Didn't I, though? Is she really that far off?

"Then what?!"

"I...I just wanted to check if..."

"What? Whether I'm planning to kill myself? Whether I'll turn up dead one day and you'll be stuck having to lie and say you never saw any signs?"

"Well..." I search for a better way to put it, and fail. This is going about as terribly as could be expected.

"Well, I'm not. There's no need to worry about that, so you can stop pretending to care and just leave me alone."

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't–I just..."

I've completely lost control of the situation. Why did I think I could handle this? I see Wallflower turning to leave. I can't let her go. I can't let things end like this.

"Wait!" She pauses and turns to look at me. "I, um, actually did have some questions. No lectures, I promise. I'm just...curious."

"About what?" I see suspicion mixing with impatience.

"Well, I guess...why?"

"Why?"

"Yeah, I mean, if you're not looking to really hurt yourself, then why do you do it? I wanna know."

"You wouldn't understand."

"I'd like to."

Wallflower's face scrunches up as she searches for any kind of intelligible answer to give me. Frustration creeps in as she fails to find the proper words. I'm guessing she doesn't even know why she does it.

"I...I can't describe it. Sorry."

"That's okay. There was something else I wanted to know."

"What?"

"Um...how? How do you do it?"

Her previous expression is displaced by one of surprise. Clearly, she wasn't expecting that.

"What do you mean by that?"

What do I mean by that? I spoke without thinking and now my brain is racing to catch up with my mouth.

"Like, your technique? I just want to make sure you're being safe, that's all. You know, that you're...taking proper precautions?"

She rolls her eyes. "I know what I'm doing. And what, you're suddenly the authority on the proper way to cut yourself?"

"N-No. I don't really know much about it at all. Which is why I'm asking."

She stands in silence for a few moments, weighing her options.

"Fine. If it means you won't go tattling to the authorities, I'll show you how I do it."

I'm about to say that's not what I meant, but the words slip from my tongue as Wallflower rolls up her sleeve and I catch sight of the patchwork of thin, neat scars. There's so many of them. They're horrifying and beautiful and revolting and strangely hypnotic. There's some variation in the angles, but I note that they're all closer to being perpendicular to the length of the arm, rather than parallel. That's good at least.

Remember boys and girls, successful kids go down the road, not across the street.

I couldn't say where I remember that tidbit from.

Meanwhile, Wallflower has moved to the sink and fished a small orange box out of a pocket. She flips it open and pulls out a small, individually wrapped razor blade. Removing the small piece of paper, she lowers it toward her arm. I notice that I seem to be licking my lips. The air must be getting dry. Time to stock up on chapstick.

I see the razor make contact with an unmarked patch of her arm and my stomach churns. A chill runs through my spine and the skin on my arms crawls in anticipation. It's horrible and nauseating, and I want to stop watching, but I can't tear my eyes away for a second. I need to keep looking. For Wallflower, of course. To make sure she's safe. That's why. My heart pounds as I watch Wallflower lightly drag the razor like a feather over her delicate flesh.

Nothing happens. I stare in confusion for a pause that feels like an eternity, wondering if she somehow messed up and didn't even break the skin, until a thin red line fades into view. It slowly thickens, swelling and growing brighter and more defined until a small bead forms and runs down her arm in a thin crimson streak. She quickly sets about thoroughly washing the wound with soap and water, then reaches into another pocket to retrieve a bandage which she applies with practiced expertise before rolling her sleeve back down and turning back to me.

"There. Is that good enough for y—"

Something makes her stop mid-sentence when she looks at my face. I don't know what it is. I'm not doing anything. But for some reason her expression actually softens. Like she finally figured something out. She reaches once again for the orange box and retrieves another razor. Then she holds it out to me, almost like she's offering—OH!

"No! No no no no no! I don't! I would never! I-uh-n-no thank you!"

"R-Right. Nevermind." Wallflower hurriedly returns the razor to its case and returns it to her pocket. "Well, are you satisfied?"

"Well I guess you do seem to know what you're doing. But, uh, what about the other day when you...?"

"Nobody ever comes back here, so you startled me at just the wrong moment and I cut a bit too deep. Nothing serious though, I got it patched up just fine. Although..." She rolls her sleeve back up, showing off a lingering rust color clinging stubbornly to the yellow interior. "...the stain is a real pain in the ass to get out."

"Oh, sorry about that."

She shrugs "It's fine."

A crazy idea pops into my head. "Actually, if you wanted...I mean, hydrogen peroxide is great for removing blood stains from clothes without damaging colors, and I've got laboratory grade solutions back at my house, and since it is kinda my fault it happened in the first place...do you wanna maybe...come over sometime?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. And also, my parents are usually away on business and my lab is private and clean, with lots of sterile equipment and well stocked first aid kits. So if you need a place that's not an abandoned bathroom..."

"Are you saying you want me to come over and cut myself in your lab?"

"No! That's not what I'm saying! I mean, obviously you shouldn't, but if you're going to anyway, you could at least choose better conditions, right? And I know you know what you're doing, but another person around with a first aid kit couldn't hurt if something somehow goes wrong. Like a sudden earthquake or something." I take a gamble and crack a joke. "And besides, I could always use some fresh blood for experiments. If you're going to be shedding it anyways, waste not want not, am I right?"

My gamble pays off as a chuckle escapes her lips. I guess she's into the same kind of morbid humor I am.

"You're definitely a weird one, Twilight Sparkle."

"Yeah, I know. We could also, you know, just hang out if you're interested."

"Nah, I've always been crap at tying knots."

Before I can stop myself, I've burst out into laughter. I know it's horrible, but Wallflower's deadpan delivery is just perfect. My attempts to suppress my fit of giggling only result in an embarrassing snort.

She looks thoughtfully at the stain on her sleeve. "Alright, I'll come check it out. I do like this sweater. And I'll...give some thought to what you said. Let me just grab my stuff."

She leaves the bathroom to return to her locker and I follow. That definitely wasn't how I thought this would go, but despite the rough start, it seems to have worked out. If I can offer her a safe, supportive, non-judgemental space, that's good, isn't it? Build rapport. Maybe just having someone to chat with and confide in will help her. And even if she keeps cutting herself, better that she does it under supervision, right?

***

"Okay, I've got another one for you." I call out over my shoulder as I soak and rinse the stained section of sleeve in another batch of hydrogen peroxide. Somehow, on the walk home, the two of us had started trading suicide jokes, and Wallflower had some pretty good ones.

I hear her call back from her spot, lounging on the couch. "Alright, hit me."

"What did the librarian say to the girl who asked for a book on how to commit suicide?"

"What?"

"Fuck you! You're not gonna bring it back!"

"Hah! Alright, that's a pretty good one, but I've got one specially tailored for you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Why is a bullet better than the quadratic formula?"

"Ooh! Why?"

"Because the latter only solves a certain kind of problem once you get it through your head, and the former solves all of them."

I narrowly avoid spilling peroxide all over the table, I'm laughing so hard. This girl is a riot, and I had no idea. It's so great to have someone to laugh about this kind of stuff with. There's no way I could tell these kinds of jokes with my other friends without getting worried looks.

"Yeah, I thought you might like that one" Wallflower says as she continues to lounge while drawing a thin line on her arm with one of my laboratory scalpels. "Your turn."

I have to think for a bit. I'm starting to run dry. "Uh, What did the motivational speaker say to the group of suicide survivors shortly before he was fired?"

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

"Too obvious?"

"Definitely."

"Sorry, guess I need time to come up with more. Anyway, I think your sweater is done."

I hold up the now blood free sweater for inspection. Wallflower finishes cleaning and dressing her latest incision and appraises it.

"Looks pretty good, Twilight. And all traces of it are gone?"

"Yep!" I give it a few spritzes of luminol and turn off the lights for a few seconds to no telltale blue glow.

"Nice. Thanks again, Twilight. You're...actually pretty cool."

"Thanks. You're pretty cool too."

"You know, I gotta go now, but...I wouldn't mind coming back here again sometime."

"Drop by whenever you want. My door is always open. Well, figuratively. I do try to keep it a controlled environment, so do actually keep the door closed. But you know what I mean." I flash her a genuine smile.

She returns it. "Yeah. Thanks."

Soon she has her stuff all packed up and leaves for the evening. Today was a huge success. I not only made a positive impact, but also a new friend! I can't wait for her to visit again. I'm still buzzing with energy and it's actually kind of distracting. There was some work I actually wanted to get done this evening, but I'm too wound up to focus on it now. I need to slow my hyperactive thoughts a bit.

Fortunately, I have just the thing for that. I head to the bathroom and start running a scalding hot bath. A thick blanket of steam fills the room like a fog, clouding up the mirror. I always found a little dancing on the edge of self-induced heat stroke to work wonders for helping me relax and quiet down the storm of activity in my mind. I wonder if it's similar to being inebriated, but I wouldn't know. It's certainly a lot cheaper than alcohol, though.

I grit my teeth at the initial stinging pain in my legs as I step into the bathtub, but it soon passes as I acclimatize to the temperature. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my head, drowning out racing thoughts with its steady beat. My heart is pounding so hard I can actually see my chest twitching. My whole body is flushed as my blood works valiantly to cool my core by rushing to my skin. A fruitless effort to try and release heat through the skin and out into the surrounding environment, doomed to failure by the water being significantly hotter than blood in the first place.

The world starts to spin slightly. I close my eyes and imagine frustrated blood cells pushing up harder against the barrier that contains them. Seeking some way to fulfill their mission and carry this heat away. Escaping to freedom through long thin lines down my arms and across my ankles. Spilling out and tinting the water a beautiful scarlet.

Solidarity

"Hey, Twilight!" I turn to see Sunset jogging up to me in the hallway. "Me and the rest of the girls were planning to cruise the mall, maybe head over to Pinkie's for a movie night afterwards. You in?"

"Oh, uh, sorry. I've got plans."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. With Wallflower."

"Oh, right! She was telling me you two had started hanging out together. That's great! I was worried she'd never open up to anyone else. Until now, I got the impression I was the only one she even talked to, and even then, that was more her barely tolerating me, but it sounded like you two were really hitting it off."

"Yeah, she's...pretty fun actually."

"Glad to hear it. Of course, you're both welcome to join us, but I understand if Wallflower still isn't up for large groups. Especially with the kind of energy a super-extrovert like Pinkie brings."

"Right, probably not. Our hangs are definitely a lot less...lively. Sorry."

Sunset waves a dismissive hand. "Totally not a problem. Everyone's got their own speed. But yeah, the three of us should definitely get together some time, don't you think?"

"Uhh, yeah. I guess that could be fun."

"Right, we'll have to work something out later. Anyway, have fun!" Sunset runs off to join up with the rest of the girls.

"You too!" I shout back after her.

Somehow, it had completely slipped my mind that Sunset and Wallflower were friends, though I'm not sure how close they actually are. I wonder if Sunset knows about Wallflower's 'habit'. She'd never mentioned it, but then again, neither had I. Probably because a good friend didn't go blabbing secrets that weren't theirs. Either Sunset didn't know, in which case that was the way Wallflower wanted it, or she did and simply exercises the same discretion I do.

I pull my bag over my shoulder and start making my way to the roof to meet Wallflower. About two weeks back, I had shown her my secret lunch spot, and since then we'd frequently meet up there to just chill, enjoy the view, and people watch as all the students dispersed at the end of the day. Usually, it wouldn't be long until we went to my place and my garage/lab, but one time we spent so long chatting and playing dumb games like Word Chain or virtual chess on our phones, that we lost track of time and got a rooftop view of the setting sun. Thankfully, the school didn't have any motion sensor alarms, and the doors were the kind with the bar that pushes open from the inside and locks automatically behind you, so we were able to slip out long after closing time without being caught.

As I step up onto the roof, something flies at my face. My hand shoots up to catch it, though this isn't nearly as impressive a feat of reflexes as it would be without the purple glow of my magic rapidly slowing it. I examine the projectile and find a large chocolate cookie wrapped in plastic. Wallflower is standing a few feet away, waving and eating a cookie of her own.

"Thanks, but are you ever going to stop throwing things at me?"

"Just as soon as telekinetic powers stop being cool, so, probably not any time soon."

I just roll my eyes and pull two soft drinks out of my bag, tossing one to her, which she catches with the hand not currently occupied with cramming the cookie into her mouth. I join her by the ledge, where we both enjoy our decidedly unhealthy after school snack before we head back to my place.

***

I put the labeled container of potassium back down in its spot on the lab bench, next to the ytrium and the sulfur, and steal another glance back at Wallflower, currently sprawled across the couch and flipping through a gardening magazine. The scalpel I left out sits nearby, still unused. This is the third time in a row that she's come over and hasn't cut herself once.

That's good news. Isn't it? That could mean she's getting better. That she's losing the need to harm herself. That's undoubtedly, unquestionably a positive development. One worthy of celebration.

But...

What if it's not? What if it just means she's grown more self-conscious around me? Does she think I'm silently judging her? What if that just makes her cut herself in secret somewhere else? Somewhere that's less safe?

This is bad. She could be regressing. I need to do something. I need to find some way to show her that I'm not judging her. That this is a safe place where she doesn't have to hide herself. But what?

Not paying attention, I accidentally brush my hand against the edge of the hot plate. I give a small yelp and quickly pull it back, shaking it in the air.

"You alright?" Wallflower glances up from her magazine.

"Fine, I'm fine. Just being an idiot over here."

She shrugs and returns to her reading. I look at the small red mark, already fading away. It's no big deal, the plate wasn't even that hot. It won't leave a burn.

I'm struck by an idea.

I grab a metal spatula and hold the tip in the flame of the bunsen burner, the same way I always do when I need to sterilize it and burn off any chemical residue. I hold it there for a good 30 seconds. I slide off one sleeve of my lab coat, providing better access to my shirt, which I roll up just enough to expose the side of my stomach, just above my right hip. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Wallflower, still reading her magazine. I give a quick cough, enough to make her glance up, and when I'm sure I'm in her field of view I grit my teeth and quickly press the heated end of the spatula against my exposed skin.

There's a sharp hiss as I inhale through my teeth. It definitely hurts, though not quite as much as I expected it to. Keeping it pressed against my side and overpowering the reflex to jerk it away is a lot easier than I thought, and it only gets easier after the first second as the metal cools, dispersing its heat into me and gradually dropping the rate of transfer over time.

Wallflower doesn't say anything, but I can feel her eyes on me. On the large discolored mark seared into my skin. In the corner of my eye, I can see her glancing at the scalpel on the nearby table and fidgeting. She looks at the scalpel, then back at me, then back at the scalpel again. Finally, I see her reach for it.

That's...well, not good I guess. No, I wouldn't say that. But at least she doesn't feel like she has to hide herself from me anymore. This might be a bit...unorthodox, but it's all in the interest of solidarity and building rapport. You can't help someone without that.

The metal spatula has cooled to the point that it's no longer even noticeable through the patch of loud, angry, burned skin. I move it back into the flame.

Spiral

My heart is still in my throat as I leap out of the bus and run up to the pair of double doors. The maddeningly cryptic phone call with Wallflower replays in my head, just as it had for the entire bus ride downtown.

Hello?

Hey, Twilight. Don't freak out or anything, but...something happened and I need to talk to you. Like, right away if possible?

Sure, do you want me to come by your house?

Uh, n-no. I'm actually...in the hospital at the moment.

WHAT?!

I'll tell you more when you get here, just hurry.

I somehow keep it together as I get Wallflower's room number after they confirm that I've been specifically requested as a visitor. I don't know how I manage to keep myself from running through the hallways. I finally find the right room and step inside.

Wallflower lies in a hospital bed, one arm wrapped tightly in bandages and an IV saline drip running into the other. A man I recognize as her father sits in a chair nearby. She looks up at me and smiles.

"Twilight! You made it!" She turns to her father. "Uh, hey dad? Do you mind if we...have a little privacy? You know, some girl talk?"

Any reluctance on his part is masked by a reassuring smile.

"Sure. I'll go get some juice. I'll be back in five minutes." I note the emphasis on the short duration he's willing to let her out of his sight.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I whirl on her. "Wallflower! What happ—?"

She raises a finger to her lips and waves for me to come closer. I lean in close and repeat in a shrill whisper.

"What happened?!"

"I just got a bit carried away, that's all. It's not as bad as it looks, really."

"Really?! Cause you're in the freaking hospital!"

"I know, alright! Look, I called you because I need a favor."

"What?"

"Well, I don't think they're going to let me go home any time soon, and my parents are both here at the moment, trading off between staying in here with me and talking with the doctors, but sooner rather than later at least one of them is gonna head home and they're almost certainly going to toss my room. So, you remember what we were joking about last week?"

"You want me to break into your house to delete your porn?"

"No, not that. Well, not specifically. Okay, so there might be a certain flash drive among the small box of personal effects I need you to grab from the bottom drawer of my dresser."

"Seriously?!"

"Yes! It's got my razor collection and a really cool pocket knife I worked really hard to get. If my parents find it, it's all gone! Just, grab it and keep it safe for me. You're the only person I can trust with this."

"Alright, I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, Twilight. I knew I could count on you. You're a good friend."

I stand up and take a step back as her dad returns bearing apple juice.

"Don't worry, Wallflower. I'll make sure to bring all your school assignments, and I'll even help you study."

"Thanks. You're the best, Twilight!" She calls out after me as I hastily exit and make my way to the bus stop.

As I make my commute across town, I'm determined not to let Wallflower down, but I'm still angry at her. How could she do this? I thought she was smarter than that! Careful! How could she be so reckless, so careless as to get herself caug-hurt like that? Now she was probably gonna be stuck there under observation for weeks! Then who am I supposed to ~~———~~ with?

I finally arrive at Wallflower's house and confirm that the coast is clear. I can see her bedroom window up on the second floor, but I'm not certain of the best way to reach it. I fuss about half a minute trying to determine if the drain pipe can hold my weight before slapping a palm to my face and simply levitating myself up. A little more magic flips the lever on the other side of the glass, unlocking the window and allowing me to crawl inelegantly through, knocking assorted debris off the writing desk I have to climb over in the process.

Brushing myself off and looking around the room, I ignore the coppery smell of dried blood coming from the attached bathroom and make my way over to Wallflower's dresser. I open the bottom drawer and push aside the pile of socks to expose a plain wooden box. I flip up the lid and spot about a dozen cartridges of razors, a flash drive, what looks like a small pocket diary, and an ornate looking knife with an etched wave pattern that looks sharp enough to slice through skin like paper. This is it. The place where Wallflower stashes all her dirty secrets together. And she trusts me to look after them.

I snap the lid shut and tuck the box under my arm, pushing the drawer shut with my foot. I crawl back over the writing desk and out the window, landing in a crouch on the front lawn. A bit of magic closes and locks the window behind me and I start on my way back to my house.

***

I slide the nondescript brown box under the couch in my garage/lab. It's only a temporary hiding space. I'll think of something more secure later. Like maybe a miniature safe or secret panel with a combination lock on the inside that can only be manipulated via telekinesis. That's where I'd keep my stuff if I had anything to hide.

My thought is interrupted by my phone buzzing in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Sunset.

Twilight! I just heard Wallflower's in the hospital! Heading there now to check on her. Do you have any idea what happened?

My blood runs cold.

What is Wallflower going to tell her? What if Sunset...what if she uses her contact telepathy to see into her memories? Sees what Wallflower and I have been doing? Not that I think I've done anything wrong! No! Definitely Not! I've got nothing to hide! It's just that some of those visions could be misinterpreted. Could look...problematic without the proper context. That's all.

I leave the house. I need some air. Some space to think. To collect my thoughts and get the proper words together to explain to Sunset that it's not how it looks. How much progress I've made in helping Wallflower, and that this whole hospitalization thing is a just a small setback. Everything will be fine.

My thumb idly rubs at the area just above my right hip.

I'm fine. It's all fine. There's nothing to be worried about. I just have to find the right way to explain it to Sunset. To make her understand. And I could do that if I could just slow my thoughts down for a minute and actually think! I look at my surroundings. It seems I've made my way to the school, but I don't have the slightest recollection of the trip over here. It doesn't matter, I know where I need to go to work this out.

It's the weekend, so of course the doors are locked, but a sharp burst of telekinetic force to the delicate internal mechanisms of the lock makes short work of that problem. I run through the empty halls until I reach the secret door up to the roof. I know this is where I'll find the solution. I just need some time to think.

I take a quick glance at my phone, and I guess more time has passed than I thought during my amnesiac transit. There's a huge pileup of missed calls and texts from Sunset.

Just saw Wallflower in the hospital. We need to talk. I'm coming over.

I'm here. Let me in.

Twilight, answer the door.

Twilight, where are you?

Where are you?

Twilight, tell me where you are.

Twilight, please pick up.

Answer me.

ANSWER ME!

Twilight Please! I swear I'm not mad. Just let me know you're okay!

Just tell me you're alright!

TWILIGHT!

While I'm reading, the phone suddenly rings in my hand. Startled, my thumb mashes the answer button automatically.

"Twilight? TWILIGHT! Please, tell me where you are!"

I slam a finger down on the end call button and resume my pacing, ignoring the constant ringing that soon resumes. No, I'm not ready to deal with that yet. I still don't have the words. I'll call her back soon. Just as soon as I know what to say. Of course, I'm aware that the more I dodge her calls, the better that explanation is going to have to be. I just need to get my thoughts in order. I just need to—

In my distraction, I overextend one of my paces and my foot catches on something, causing me to stumble and trip. That something turns out to be the ledge and suddenly I'm over the side, falling through the open air as the ground rushes up at me.

On instinct, I lash out with my magic and catch myself about half-way down, then lower myself gently the rest of the way to the pavement below. I pause to catch my breath. The jackhammering of my heart in my chest would put a hummingbird to shame. But my head...my head is clear. For a moment, the storm of racing thoughts have been quieted and everything seems clearer. Sharper. But I can feel them crawling back in from the edges, whipping up the winds once again.

But now I know how to deal with that.

I float myself back up to the top of the roof again and stand on the edge. This time I jump. It's much better this time, without the terror and panic of it being sprung on me by surprise. My thoughts clear as I embrace that sweet feeling of free fall. I easily catch myself in my magic again, maybe just slightly lower than half-way this time, squeezing just the slightest bit more time out of this jump before having to go back up and jump again. And again. A little lower each time.

Yes. This is what I need. Just a little more and I'll have the answer I'm looking for. It'll all work out.

I jump again.

I can still hear the frantic ringing of the phone sitting on the ledge nearby, but it's easily tuned out. The same with the sounds of a motorcycle roaring in the distance. None of that bothers me. I'm so very close now. Just a little further and I'll reach my goal. I'll hit on a solid solution to this whole predicament.

I step off the roof once again, into the sweet embrace of free fall.

I'm fine.

Author's Note

Well that certainly was an...interesting story to write. I'm surprised how fast I got it done, but I kinda needed to because the concept was getting REALLY distracting in my head and I kinda need to start filling out taxes and financial aid forms and stuff regarding entering a PhD program.

Question for the readers: Do I need to bump this up from T to M? My thought is that the latter is usually only for explicit graphic content, but this might make up the difference with the disturbing factor. Can't really judge that myself though, have to ask the readers.

Thanks for reading.

PS: I suppose it's customary to drop this here.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline 1-800-273-8255