A random story thing that I wrote in about 40 minutes one night while listening to the Titanic soundtrack. A certain part may be recognized as coming from JtHM so I give credit to Jhonen Vasquez where its due. (If you don't know what I'm talking about then don't worry about it.).



A girl, only 15 years of age, sat in a tiny attic bedroom on a snowy February night. She wore a black lace shirt and a heavy, navy colored blanket that had yellow stars and planets on it covered her long legs. The girl loved the stars and had dreams of visiting beautiful faraway worlds.

Haunting music played on a radio in the corner of the tiny room. Melancholy cello and violin music was together with a woman producing almost inhuman vocal sounds. This music could make a person feel hope, sorrow, and memories at the same time. Music like that was dangerous. The memories were dangerous. To this girl, sitting on her attic floor, with the snow falling outside the window, the memories terrified her. She hated the memories but couldn't bring herself to turn off the violins. They were too pretty.

She stared straight ahead, hardly blinking, lost in the realms of her mind. The memories were all coming back now. She was too weak to fight them this time and she let them come.

She remembered being so young and innocent. There was one night in particular that she always remembered. She was no more than four. She couldn't have been. She remembered lying on the couch at the apartment she had grown up in. It was dark outside and it was raining. She remembered the familiar sound of the rain hitting against the window and the orange glow of the streetlight that was right outside that window. Her head rested in her mother's lap and her grandmother sat in an old reclining chair. Her two favorite people in the world. The only people she could ever talk to about anything. They had raised her. She remembered feeling safe and completely content.

Now her mother was always angry and took pills for depression and anxiety attacks. Her grandmother was now slowly dying in a cold, white hospital room with a hundred tubes and needles poking her fragile body. Her grandma used to sing to her. They were songs from when she was a little girl.

"Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. Kids will eat ivy too wouldn't you?"

Now the old woman can't sing. She can't even talk anymore. The tube in her trachea prevents that. The same tube that feeds her dying lungs oxygen.

The girl cried. It's been so long since she's felt the unfamiliar wetness on her face.

She wondered if her grandma got lonely at night. It's been so long since she'd seen her grandmother. Did she get scared at night? Afraid to be so near death? Her only companions being the pale moonlight, or on stormy winter nights like these, the unforgiving darkness. The darkness that hides the old woman's wet eyes.

The girl missed the days when she walked in the door from school and saw her grandmother sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Or all the times she used to accompany her to Bingo on Saturdays as a 'good luck charm'. She remembered playing with her grandma's immense collection of elephants and listening to her stories about her own grandma. 'She had beautiful hair and I went to her house everyday to brush it for her'.

Memories. They were so great in number and she could never get back what she once had in them. The young girl wiped away the tears from her gray eyes, and stared, unblinking, at the mirror on the wall.

She rose and then walked to her dresser. She pulled open the top drawer and pulled out the only thing that gave her any comfort. She gazed lovingly at it. Her eyes transfixed on the blade. It was so perfect, so easy to make it all go away. She ran her fingers over the blade, careful not to cut herself. The knife had never been used before. The handle was mahogany with gold designs curling around it.

The girl lifted the knife to her throat. She knew what she was doing and felt no doubt at all. She thrust the sharp blade into her tender neck and felt the skin give way. She cut deeper and felt the warm blood on her chest. She felt dizzy and let the knife slip from her hands. She took a step to her star covered blanket and wrapped herself in it. She felt so cold now and thinking was getting hard. Finally she was escaping the memories. She let herself lay on the floor and curled herself up, the sticky blood covering her.

Soon she was free. She flew on invisible wings, and the stars, they were everywhere. Higher and higher, she didn't look down. Always up, up. She was going over the stars. For the first time in years, the girl smiled with true happiness.

And the violins played on.



(Only semi-autobiographical. I don't believe that I could ever kill myself. Although I do hate memories and a lot of these are real memories I have, I would be too curious about what would happen after I die to actually die. Kinda confusing. Please R&R and make me happy and stuff.)