A Beautiful Tragedy

The first time it happens, we don't speak for three whole days.

I carry upon my shoulders the burden you placed, the invisible weight that wants to crush me to the ground and scream victory, as I weave through a school buzzing with mindless chatter and dead futures. My shoulders are small, fragile things and the weight suddenly pressing on them takes time to adjust to, so I sit in the back of all my classes, alone, just focussing on breathing and not puking. I'm not always successful - the teacher send me to the nurse while the class whispers and spreads rumours and I just go out of the building and sit and stare and wonder what you've done to me.

Maybe I miss you, maybe I don't - the words we both said and didn't say keep on hammering through my brain to the point that I forget who said them and fight off a madness so extreme it's hard to believe I'm not insane already. This continues for three days.

On the third day, I'm sat outside the science block, missing English with Mrs Epson. It's raining and I'm cold. So cold that my fingers are numb, locked around the points of my elbows as I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, my back to a wall that I know will hide me from the classroom windows and the teacher's baleful gazes as they try to teach advanced chemistry to a class that doesn't care.

I don't see you coming through the haze of rain. I think you say something, but all I can hear is the steady splat splat splat of the rain hitting the floor and cars driving past the school and my laboured breathing. You sit down next to me. I close my eyes.

Breathe.

You put your arm around me. It's okay, we're okay - that's what your gesture says. The illusion of protection. But you can't protect me and you know that. I take another deep breath. That smell of wet tarmac is strong, stronger than the Lynx I know you're wearing, and it reminds me of better times last summer when I first met you, when we thought we knew everything and then found out we didn't.

That's not something we like to talk about. Maybe we'll get around to it one day but not today.

It'll just join the mountain of things we leave unsaid. And when that mountain gets to high, or a gust of wind that's too strong hits it, and it topples over, we'll get washed up in the sky-high pile of dirty secrets that will ruin us. It makes this game we're playing - let's call it love - even more exciting. I play with your heart and you play with mine; just don't tell each other that I snogged Dan Jones in the locker room while you were getting a blow job off Emily St Claire in the boy's toilets. We're as bad as each other.

But I think that I do love you, just like you love me. It's just not conventional love. It's slut love.

That's not even the problem and you know that as well as I do. We can't ignore this, not anymore. But you do.

You kiss me. A sweet little kiss on the lips that I deepen because it's not enough to break through the apathy we both feel. I'm suddenly warm and it doesn't matter that it's raining or that we're outside school. I straddle your hips and we snog and nothing is bad, nothing is dark.

We are okay for now.


The second time it happens, a month later, you ask me if it hurts. I tell you yes and I can tell by your expression that you don't understand. That's okay, I say, because that's the point - I do it because it hurts. The pain pierces through the monotony of my life like the knife I use to make the cuts. Black and white are broken up by the too-red blood of a too-pale dead-alive girl that I pretend I'm not.

"Don't do this to yourself," he whispers, tracing the scars - fading, faded, gone. "Don't break yourself. Please."

I smile and nod. I lie to you, like I always do because I broke myself a long time ago, long before I met you.

That is all we say on the subject. Not because we don't care but, like last time, because we don't know quite how to say the words we scream inside our heads. It's all so beautifully tragic. You run away from the problems I bring you with alcohol while I starve and bleed away my guilt - and I will never tell you this, but I have a stash of pills for emergencies and I'm so close to taking them.

You're not enough, but I will suck you dry before I leave you. I push you back onto the bed, swing my legs so I'm sitting on your pelvis, grinding, grinding, until you moan and I kiss you and we both die just a little more inside. This passion is everything - harder, harder - and it used to work but now you're unhappy and I can't steal your happiness when you don't have any.

Maybe it's time to let you go…

But I can't.


You're used to it by the third time and that's a shame because I love the way your face crinkles so cutely in surprised confusion. The blood doesn't shock you anymore, nor the note that's on the fridge - just the same meanings as before, but different words - and you sigh when you see me, like I'm some annoying child you're forced to tend for.

I feel the darkness of unconsciousness pull me under as you lift me from the bed and into the bathroom. I come to in the bath, naked and pleasantly warm and achy. The aftermath of a suicide attempt is beautiful, a mind numbing period of time where I can just be and not have to think. You come in as I step out of the bath, my writs each with a thick straight line that will scar and should've killed me - that's the point in this, after all. To end my life; to not have to see your disappointed eyes and you stare and stare at the mess of scars and the true broken visage of your not-quite alive girlfriend.

Are you honestly surprised? We both knew I was lying when I said that I'd stop, just like you with your drinking. Hell, even now I can smell it on your breath. The last two times, we kissed and made up and I'm tired of this cycle that repeats like a broken record. So when you lean in to kiss me, to try and fix me, I push away and just shake my head.

I'm so tired.

"No…" I whisper, still naked and wet. "I can't do this! Why can't you just let me die?" and I truly want to know because you're so disappointed and everyone else has stopped caring and if you go, my last and final reason will be gone.

You smile a broken smile, eyes strangely sharp in your drunk state. "Because I love you."

And I laugh like the insane girl I am.


April first. The sun sets a little later but I'm still up, dressed in night clothes and staring into the sky. Sun turns into moon and I'm all alone, the human equivalent to the moon (weak and vulnerable but still so alone…). Tonight, I've hidden my knife and razors from myself because I miss you, damnit, and cutting will only make me forget your face. I miss you so much I'm shaking.

We weren't supposed to fall in love. We stumbled on each other by accident - a meeting of a friend of a friend that lead to me snogging him in a toilet ten minutes after we met. I was lonely and he was horny and you made me forget my problems, so we made a deal. In the darkness of my bedroom, we slit our palms and made a blood promise to be fuck buddies and nothing more. And the blood dribbled down through our fingers as we consummated our promise and sold our souls to the devil.

But our lust had evolved into slut love (where it was okay to go off and fuck someone else as long as we still fucked each other) and now… real love. The kind of love that you don't notice until it's there and it's strong, like a deadly disease but worse… I haven't fucked anyone else since the last time we spoke and that was five days ago.

Our fucked up love story was a beautiful thing. I hated attachments and you knew that, so we made the best out of our situations - people won't understand because love is complicated and broken girls make desperate deals to make themselves feel like someone cares. I can't do long relationships but you were always more than that. Sure, the sex grew dull and you couldn't make me feel enough but I could still fuck other people and I know you'd be okay with that because you only want me to be happy (I can never tell you that you saying that made me happier than all the sex in the world).

Maybe I'm using you… but you love me too, right? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry and I'm sorry that my words won't ever be enough to fix the heart that I broke with a razor to my skin and food that I didn't eat and pills that I forgot to tell you I popped. You're mine now, my broken little boy, and you can make this fourth time - the final time, yeah? - perfect.

I shouldn't ask you to kill yourself with me and it's not fair and I'm sorry but I can't live with this emptiness anymore and you love me, want me to be happy and you know what? You killing yourself with me will make me happy. We can fade into the darkness together, dark angels holding hands and laughing so hard we'll cry tears of blood from our unseeing, dead eyes.


When I was a real girl, with a whole heart and clear wrists, I used to have dreams. I dreamed of being grown up, of finding a perfect guy and losing my virginity to him and being happy with a house in the country and 2.5 kids. In my dreams, I was beautiful and I smiled a real smile because I was happy and so was my family.

But dreams shatter like glass and I'm so alone, with only my dreams and you to keep me onto the ground.

I fucked up again, didn't I?


The fourth time happens on a Sunday. I am so excited I barely contain the outrageous giggles that want to claim me. I haven't told you what we're going to do today and you're looking at me like I'm crazy - after all, this is the first time we've spoken face to face since you told me you loved me. When I open the door and you're there, I fling myself into your arms and kiss you like you're the only thing keep me alive (you are, you are, you are).

I take you to my room and we fuck. When you're drowsy and tired, I slip from your arms and find the pills we'll be taking. Your eyes widen as I show them to you wordlessly, grinning madly because this is it.

Snuggling back into your arms, naked, I open the bottle and give you half - more than enough for an overdose - and kiss you one last time.

"I love you," I whisper, my head on your chest, so ready to die. "Shhh," you're about to speak and I can't let you because that will make this harder and it's just something that I have to do now. "It's okay, we're okay."

Your breathing is heavy. You're scared. "It's okay." I say again.

"On three?"

"Okay."

"One." I look at the pills then back at you. What if you want to live and I'm taking this away from you? This is wrongbadwrongwrongstupidwrong but I'm still doing this because I'm a selfish bitch and you're a loved up boy and I'm too scared to die alone.

"Two." Your voice is surprisingly steady. Your arms tighten around my body, warm and so alive, heart beating quickly under your skin. Ohgodohgodohgod…

"Three." My voice is choked, now. I raise my hand up to my mouth, feel you do the same. The pills taste dry but I swallow and swallow until they're all gone and I'm fading, fading, fading and you're still holding me and it's okay and I love you I love you and wasn't this all just so wrong? What if I don't want to die anymore?

But I'm dead, you're dead…

When they find our bodies, we're still hugging and we look so peaceful. Death is the most peace I've had in my whole life