Tell the Timberwolves I'm Here
My Dear Silverstar,
I'm sorry I had to go like this. What kind of father leaves his daughter alone? A bad one. I was never there for you, and as we grew further and further apart, my heart started to slowly crack. I pushed you away, thinking, no, hoping that breaking contact with you would heal my heart. I was ever so wrong. Ever since your mother died, you have been all I care about. But abandoning my only lifeline was my biggest mistake. I hate to do this, and I understand if you hate me too. I couldn't life my life any more, not without you, my fabulous star. I wanted to heal these wounds, but my cowardice overtook me. My will is enclosed with this letter, but I have one last request. This knife, this silver knife I used to cut my throat, I want you to have it. I want you to remember how I went, and do the opposite of that. Become successful, become famous. Live your life happily, not wrought with despair.
Your Father, Sky.
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I hate this.
The lurking insanity, the clouds before a storm, if you will. I hide behind a mask, but not for myself, no. I shelter the others of this stupid utopian society, who believe everything is perfect. I have build a porcelain facade, but it's slowly crumbling, disintegrating into dust. Tendrils of insanity lurk beneath the mask, and seep out through the slowly widening crevices. I can't wait for the day that I finally snap, finally take a knife to my throat. But I can't do it, can't take my own life. I long for the bite of cold steel against my skin, the feeling of bleeding out from a wound on my neck. But I can't do it. Not yet. Not until I have nothing worth living for.
I live my life as if I were normal, as if nothing were wrong. Nobody knows how close I am to the brink, how close I am to losing my mind, all shreds of sanity gone. I'm a shell, a remnant of my former self. I eat mechanically and sleep periodically. I don't feel anything, yet everything hurts. I eat not for myself, but because others would think it strange. I sleep because it's my only escape from this world. I hear words, but my brain can't put them into words. When others say "I love you", I just nod, hoping that they'll leave.
Every day I reach for the knife, a silver blade that killed my father. And every day, more wounds appear on my body, slowly creeping up towards my neck, but never touching it. I don't feel the pain. Not any more. I drag the blade across my hoof, watching the blood bubbling up from my hand. A slash here, a slice there. I don't notice the pain.
Today is different. I have no reason to exist, no reason to survive. Not without her. My only friend, Lyra Heartstrings, who committed suicide via drowning. I have nothing. Nothing but a knife, waiting to slit my throat. I reach for the blade, telekinesis steady for the first time in months. I bring it up to my throat, but I can't do it. Not yet. I scream in frustration, and slam the knife point first into the table, centimeters away from my hand. Sobbing, I slide to the floor, angry with myself for my cowardice. Would Lyra have done it? Probably. Through tear-filled eyes I stare at my hooves and arms, lacerated with thin white scars from the knife. The knife. My savior, my tormentor. Would anyone miss me if I disappeared? No.
I watch with mild disinterest as the blood drips down my leg to land upon the tiled floor. I sigh, resting my head on the table leg. Why am I so weak? Why can't I do it? Why won't I die? I don't have anything to live for, yet I can't bring myself to die. Every day I tell myself "One more day". And every day I delay my inevitable demise with fear. What's one more day in the scheme of things? One more day of torture, one more day of pain.
One last walk, one last exposure to the outside before I die. My last promise before I finally take the knife to my throat.
I stand, and reach for the hilt of the blade. Sheathing it in my hoodie, I open the door, the door to my death. Most would marvel at the colors, at the sky. I walk without a purpose, without a destination. Nothing matters. Not any more. This life will be over soon, this world of pain will cease to exist. I will walk the skies with Lyra and my father, and stand by them.
As I walk along the path, the trees grow thicker together and the surrounding forest air dampens and darkens. I walk on, ignoring the silence of the woods and the gloom hanging between the trees.
I know they're watching. They always are. The Timberwolves. Stalking through the shadows, eyes focused upon their next meal. I can see them, running through the forest, following me. I don't care. If it will take me to the realm of never-ending sleep, then I welcome it with open arms.
A snarl, a sudden pain, a spurt of blood. I don't care about the blood running down my side. Not any more. Another lunge, another snap, another twinge of pain. My left forearm has a gash running from the elbow to the wrist, falling blood staining the forest floor crimson. I don't care. A slash, a growl, three swipes slicing across my chest. I sink to the forest floor, gladly welcoming the eternal sleep. I see Lyra walking in the skies, my father reaching out his hand to me, my mother smiling at me through a misty veil. A final strike, and I see no more, having joined the ranks of the slain. My body is smiling, unseeing eyes looking up to the heavens in an eternal prayer.