Post by Fiona on Oct 7, 2014 2:16:16 GMT -8
Trigger warnings: depression, self-harm
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Ella struggled to flip her bed back over from its tumbled mess, but was forced to content herself with shoving it out of the way for now when her strength failed her. She would ask Bertie to fix it later. It would be an easy task for him.
The bookcase, empty of its contents like blood spilled across the floor, was a feat she could accomplish. It tottered in its space by the wall and settled, leaving Ella to tend to the scattered books before it. Her first edition Lovecraft novels, gathered with effort for they came from a time before her small years, were bent. The Shadow Over Innsmouth had a rent in its cover, some ill-fated encounter with the Sheriff's claws as he had toppled the furniture. Ella sat there for a moment, overwhelmed by the full import of these sad wounded pages in her hands.
It wasn't the damage to the objects that hurt so badly, though it did sit ill with her timid little heart. It was the invasion of her safe space, the absolute and uncaring violation of their haven on "official business" and the completely unnecessary destruction that accompanied it. Not one word of apology. Not one acknowledgment of their cooperation with the search. Only the arrogant violation of their personal spaces, the lack of care or explanation, and the gloating of those who enjoyed to see the little upstarts laid so low. Ella had no status and here, that meant she was worthless. Meant she was nothing at all to those above her, just chaff underfoot.
The insipid ever-present voice of her depression whispered to her in the corners of her mind. Why shouldn't they treat her that way? She was useless. A constant disappointment to any who might rely on her or care for her. A burden living on the offhand kindness of her much-beloved sister. They had come into her home, and the home of those Ella wanted to serve and protect, and wrecked it without any emotion at all. Ella couldn't even save a book, much less stop something like this from happening.
Her gaze fell on another scattered piece of her belongings. The small knife was meant to sharpen the pencils she used for her more serious writing. A thin blade, but more than adequate for the places her mind wandered. Ella placed its edge against her wrist, across the vein and not along it, and parted flesh with ease. A sharp blade indeed, the pain sharp and fast,the cut clean. Blood well sluggishly along the line, a half-hearted gurgle past a pain that seemed to fade faster each time. She couldn't even bleed properly. Frustration welled up and burst out in an angry stab as Ella thrust the knife though the palm of her left hand. The pain felt good. Felt real. Let her feel real, if all alone.
But it meant nothing. Wounds like this were easily healed, easily forgotten, leaving no mark on time. The things inside her head were not so easily healed. Never once had Ella mattered before, not really. She hadn't mattered now either. Her family and friends here let her help, but that wasn't the same thing as needing her. No one needed her. Maybe no one ever would.
Ella tossed the knife aside, kicked the battered books on the floor towards their empty case, and sat by her upside-down bed to cry.
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Ella struggled to flip her bed back over from its tumbled mess, but was forced to content herself with shoving it out of the way for now when her strength failed her. She would ask Bertie to fix it later. It would be an easy task for him.
The bookcase, empty of its contents like blood spilled across the floor, was a feat she could accomplish. It tottered in its space by the wall and settled, leaving Ella to tend to the scattered books before it. Her first edition Lovecraft novels, gathered with effort for they came from a time before her small years, were bent. The Shadow Over Innsmouth had a rent in its cover, some ill-fated encounter with the Sheriff's claws as he had toppled the furniture. Ella sat there for a moment, overwhelmed by the full import of these sad wounded pages in her hands.
It wasn't the damage to the objects that hurt so badly, though it did sit ill with her timid little heart. It was the invasion of her safe space, the absolute and uncaring violation of their haven on "official business" and the completely unnecessary destruction that accompanied it. Not one word of apology. Not one acknowledgment of their cooperation with the search. Only the arrogant violation of their personal spaces, the lack of care or explanation, and the gloating of those who enjoyed to see the little upstarts laid so low. Ella had no status and here, that meant she was worthless. Meant she was nothing at all to those above her, just chaff underfoot.
The insipid ever-present voice of her depression whispered to her in the corners of her mind. Why shouldn't they treat her that way? She was useless. A constant disappointment to any who might rely on her or care for her. A burden living on the offhand kindness of her much-beloved sister. They had come into her home, and the home of those Ella wanted to serve and protect, and wrecked it without any emotion at all. Ella couldn't even save a book, much less stop something like this from happening.
Her gaze fell on another scattered piece of her belongings. The small knife was meant to sharpen the pencils she used for her more serious writing. A thin blade, but more than adequate for the places her mind wandered. Ella placed its edge against her wrist, across the vein and not along it, and parted flesh with ease. A sharp blade indeed, the pain sharp and fast,the cut clean. Blood well sluggishly along the line, a half-hearted gurgle past a pain that seemed to fade faster each time. She couldn't even bleed properly. Frustration welled up and burst out in an angry stab as Ella thrust the knife though the palm of her left hand. The pain felt good. Felt real. Let her feel real, if all alone.
But it meant nothing. Wounds like this were easily healed, easily forgotten, leaving no mark on time. The things inside her head were not so easily healed. Never once had Ella mattered before, not really. She hadn't mattered now either. Her family and friends here let her help, but that wasn't the same thing as needing her. No one needed her. Maybe no one ever would.
Ella tossed the knife aside, kicked the battered books on the floor towards their empty case, and sat by her upside-down bed to cry.