Desolation in Its Purest Form by Lilith S.

I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, staring at myself with a blank expression. What am
I supposed to do other than stare? Stare at the seventeen-year old girl who's hated by everyone.
Her parents. Her teachers. Her peers. Hell, even her friends, which are now her long-lived
enemies. They all hate her - me - and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

I look at myself with disgust. What ever happened to me? How did this evolve from the perfect,
innocent, sweet girl my parents saw me as. How? That was my question. And this was myself I
was talking about. How? When? Why? All questions coming from and to me, but no one had an
answer. Not even the poor girl in the mirror.

What am I saying? Poor? I am hideous. The person no one wanted to be around purely because
of looks. At other times it's because of the thought of being around someone who looked more
insane than a blood curling criminal in an insane asylum.

I cringe at the thought, and I close my eyes only to be rewarded with a few tears streaming down
my pale, fat cheeks. I open my green eyes again to look at myself, but all I see is flaws. Ugly
flaws. Horrid flaws. The flaws no one wants to be next to or talk with or interact with, let alone
look at.

I dab my ugly cheeks with a wad of toilet paper, picking up the bits of mascara that had ran down
with the salty evidence of emotion. I pause at the sight of my makeup.

What is the point? Of wearing makeup? Just to make yourself look better? But what if you don't?
What if you don't look good? What if you look like fucking hell at all hours of every day of
every month of every year? What is the point? Of putting it on every morning just to have people
comment with hate on how I look like Chris Angel's fag brother? Or how I look so bad that I
shouldn't even be on this Earth right now? Or how I should just kill myself because I have taste,
because I am the purist of the pure when it comes to the Devil? Or how even if I did one good
thing - like saving a child or joining a charity - I'd still have my place in hell to go to when I
died? How about the fact that I'm the only one feeling it? I'm the only one feeling the pain of
being different.

But is different a good thing?

Different is a term only used with the word good. With the word hope and faith. Different refers
to normal, but unique. I'm not unique. I'm not different. I'm the purist form of evil this world has
seen. That's what everyone says. Every person I see at school. Every teacher I am forced to talk
to. Every counselor I've ever been to. They've all said the same thing. They all will say the same
thing. Even my wretched parents who no nothing more than to criticize every move I make.
Every grade I get, every note I get sent home with. Every detention slip I earn, every tear I shed.
Every God damn sin people say I've given into.

What is a sin?

Sin. Something bad from the context of every person at my school. Sin. A wrong doing from
which one is no longer in contact with God, but now in alliance with the Devil himself.

Do they even exist? Does God really exist?

If he did he would've done something. He would've helped me see the light in the darkness, to
see the good in all the bad, to see the best in the worst. Isn't that what church was supposed to
teach you? The church that kicked me out because I wore the wrong thing and thought a different
way? The one that tore out half of my heart and threw it in the epitome of the devil's worshipers.
Is that what happened? They saw me as a worshiper for the devil? They see me as a worshiper
for him?

I fall to the ground in tears. My heart breaks again and again at the thought. At the recollection of
my past. Of the sins people think I've committed. Of the sins people know I've committed. Of the
people I knew and loved, the ones who turned on me without a trace of reluctance or forgiveness
written anywhere on their face, on their body, in their mind...

I fall to the ground in tears, my thoughts pinned on my past. The people I knew, the people I
loved, they all broke my heart in half, leaving me with nothing but memories of the happiness
and warmth I used to feel when I was with them. No. I'd never feel that again. I can't. I won't. I
don't. The feel never comes back. Not since that fateful day had I felt such an... emotion.

My tears escape, falling down my ugly cheeks once more a sign of pure, raw, awful, sinful
emotions. I choke on my forming saliva as I try to swallow. My nose is running.

I gather up all of what is left of me and stand back up, opening up the cupboard and knocking a
few pill bottles down into the sink before reaching the makeup remover wipes. I close the cabinet
to be met once again face to face with my reflection. Face to face with my imagine. Face to face
with my ugly, fat features of the most visual part of my body.

I pull my side-swept bangs back, my eyes adjusting to the sudden use of my left eye. It is
unusual to see from both. My bangs fall back over my eye and I force them back again, pinning
them in place before beginning to wipe off my makeup.

The first thing I see as I round my face with the moist towelette is the faint blush of my cheeks
when touched at their natural state. The second thing I see is the faint drizzle of freckles that fall
under my eyes and around my nose. I begin to take off my black, smudged eye makeup and I'm
almost shocked as I begin to see myself in my natural state. I wipe off my eyebrows to reveal my
naturally brown brows.

A tear falls, and then another. I see myself again. I see that girl - the innocent, the pure, the
beautiful - again. But it's not me. It's merely a memory. It's merely a keep sake of how stupid I
am and how I am the worshipper of the Devil himself. How I am a sin. How I am the purest sin
this world - and the Devil - had to offer.

I throw the wipe in the garbage before unpinning my hair. I look down at the pill bottles in the
sink. They are my mother's. They are my father's. They are my grandmother's.

I take a breath as I set them neatly on the base of the sink - where the spout for the water was
placed and where the nobs poked their crystal handles out of the white marble sink.

Then I leave the room.

I strip from my clothes when I reach my room. A room. One that was given to me for a short
period of time before I was to be transported to some other town, some other school, some other
life and never to be seen by anyone here ever again. Well, that opportunity may be coming earlier
than expected.

I stare at my naked body in the mirror. It's unusual really. How as I child you have nothing. Not
curves, no breasts, no sins. But as you get older, everything changes. Your body, your mind, your
soul. They all change. And now I am all sin. No innocence. But all sin.

I walk to my closet and pick out a dress. The dress I bought for prom, as if I had thought that
someone - whether guy or girl - was going to ask me to the dance. The dance is tonight. I'm not
going.

I slide on a pair of underwear before slipping into the black gown. It's beautiful. On me... no. By
itself, on a mannequin or on a model... yes.

Beaded gold bodice, sweetheart neckline. Floor length skirt, puffed out barely with the tulle
underneath. Streamer-like beads falling down three-forths of the way on the skirt. Beauty. I love
it.

I stare at myself in the dress, suddenly seeing something different. My fat body suddenly looks...
skinny. Skinnier than before, skinnier than ever. Almost like... an anorexic. My bones poke out in
all the wrong places, but I have no fat. No ugly, puffy, flimsy fat. I have none. Why am I not
happy?

I slip on a pair of golden heels - a pair that I had also bought without my mother's permission. I
sigh at the sight.

I walk back to the bathroom and pull out a hair curler, plugging it in and pulling my hair up into
a ponytail, letting my bangs fall down again before pinning them back and beginning to redo my
makeup.

I put on blush. I apply nude eyeshadow. I draw slim eyeliner onto my bare eyes, and then swipe
mascara onto my lashes, making them look beautiful and long. I curl the ends of my hair - the
ones stuck in the high ponytail and falling against my back in loose curls. I curl my bangs
slightly, the ends getting shorter with the curl and my eye beginning to be able to see once again.

I apply dark red lipstick. It pops out with my pale complexion.

I smile when I go to my room again, to look in the mirror at myself in full view. I feel...
beautiful. Like I should in this position. Not to go to prom or to go to a stupid dance or even to
stay in. But to choose.

I look at my arm, the scars of the knife and broken glass making a single tear fall. My skin was
shredded at that time. Shredded into pieces. It felt good. To feel. To feel something that wasn't
emotions. It was... breath taking.

I remember so clearly that night. That night it all started. The cutting, that is.

I sit in the bathtub fully dressed with the exception of my leather jacket. The water is
overflowing, but I don't care. My hand is bleeding from the punch I gave to the mirror. The glass
was cracked and broken, pieces fallen into the sink and onto the floor, sliding across the linoleum
to meet the door.

I slip my head underneath the surface of the water, my breath letting go with bubbles. I sit in
there, underwater, staring at the surface. It's dark. That's all I can see.

I gasp as I reach the surface, more water spilling over with the movement. I take a few breaths
and look at the floor to see how much water is to be cleaned up. But I don't notice the water. I
notice the sharp piece of glass floating in it.

I reach down, grasping it and feeling the water overflow even more. My bleeding hand touches
it, grasps it. I bring it closer to me and lean back into the tub.

I can't help but smile at the touch, at the feel as I drag it across the skin of my left arm. I let it dig
in, a drop of blood drizzling down my skin and landing in the water. I push it in deeper.

I pull down hard and cringe at the feel, but I keep going, picking another soft spot on my skin
and digging the glass into to, slicing open my flesh and letting my blood drip and drip and drip
into the water of the tub. I lean back at the feel, my eyes soft and wet with tears. They are closed
as I cry. But I still keep on going.

I keep on cutting deeper and slicing longer. Until I reach my hand, my palm and I stop, opening
my eyes and feeling more tears fall.

My arm is shredded to pieces. Every drop of water is stained red. Blood red. I sigh and drop the
glass into the water, my arms displayed on the side of the tub. I lean my head back over the edge,
my hair pooling on the wet floor.

I feel good. I feel amazing. I feel in control.

I shed a few tears as I look at myself. I feel in control. Not now. Not at this moment. I feel like
I'm being controlled. I walk to the bathroom again and pick up each pill bottle, dumping them all
- every pill of every bottle - into my hand. They overflow my palm and I cup them in both hands.

I walk carefully downstairs, making sure not to spill them. I set them on the table, positioning
them to not roll away. I walk to the kitchen and pull out a tall glass, filing it to the brim with my
father's scotch. I guzzle the last of the brown liquid in the bottle before taking it to the table.

I take a handful of the pills, throwing them into my mouth and guzzling merely half of the
scotch. They all go down. Every last one of them. Without hesitation I reach for another,
swallowing them the same way, but leaving a forth of the liquid in the glass this time. I reach for
some more and finish the scotch. The alcohol is gone, but the pills aren't.

It takes me a minute to get my hand to the table. I feel slightly dizzy, and slightly nauseous, but I
ignore it. Then the door opens. It's my parents.

I barely touch the pills when it hits me. The pain. I'm burning inside, I hurt, I ache. It feels like
knives are ripping apart my insides and I fall on my hands and knees. My mother screams,
running towards me, but I collapse on my side, convulsing. My body is shaking. I can't get up. I
can't speak. I'm going to die.

I feel my eyes closing. It burns. I'm being attacked by a thousand degrees of fire. A thousand
blades, a thousand cuts. But these are the ones I felt before. The ones I loved. These... these were
the ones I hate.

I can't scream. I can't talk. I can't do anything as I look at my mother as she cradles me. Tears are
taking off her makeup as they run down their face. She... cares? I hear my father's voice in the
background as he begins a call.

A tear escapes my eye as my mother brushes back my hair and speaks.

"Don't leave me, Lilith. Don't you dare leave me. You're going to be fine. You're going to be just
fine. Don't leave me. Lilith..."

I feel my eyes begin to close and I can't stop them. I can't say a word as the fire and pain reaches
my throat. Almost like I was going to throw up. But worse.

"Lilith!" My mother screams as I give up and let my eyes shut.

I wake up in a hospital bed feeling like shit. My mother is beside me, her forehead placed on my
hand. I can feel her tears dripping off my fingers. My father is beside her, his head down, his
elbows on his knees. We are all in pain. And it's all my fault...

I regret that day more than anything in the world. I regret it more and more every second I think
about it. Six years later and I still feel the same way about it. Regret. Pain. Hurt. All because I
felt like everyone hated me. That I didn't belong in this world. Like I didn't have a reason to stay
or to believe that people actually did appreciate me. Some looked up to me, even. But I wouldn't
have known it if it weren't for the doctors. If it weren't for my parents how called, if it weren't for
my want to live.

Never feel like you aren't needed. If you do, get help. People love you. Even if you can't see it.
They do. Don't give up. You'll regret it if you do.