To those sensitive to the following topics:

Depression, domestic abuse, violence, blood, self harm, anxiety, death

Severe discretion is advised.

Once upon a time…

Humans were just like any other animal. They ate, they were kind to one another, they were families. Their circle of life was a simple one, but perhaps that's not a bad thing.

Long ago, back when language didn't exist and humans weren't humans, back in a simpler time, things were different. There were no video games, no books, no TV shows, no fashion, no stores, seemingly none of our modern-day constructs. But one such construct has stood the test of time, and some will see it getting stronger every day.

Love.

In a time oh so long ago, love was one of few things that brought all early life together between one another. Love in a family was unconditional. Love in a friend was trustworthy. Love in oneself was a given.

Today, love is still strong, some might say. But the truth is, it's not. Friends betray one another's trust, families abuse their children more frequently than ever, and you can never love yourself the way an animal does.

Many of us have seemingly lost the primal instinct to care for ourselves as we would another. One thing that has increased exponentially, though, for centuries? Fear.

Fear that the people you trust are going to hurt you. Fear that your family is going to break you. Fear that you're going to break yourself. So much of the apparent lack of self-love today is caused by fear. Fear that if you love yourself, you'll be the bad guy. You'll be the one they point their fingers at, whispering. A narcissist. Self-obsessed and blind.

Some people can't handle that, and they take their own lives.

My name is Jasmine Flaire. I was born into a world of chaos and discord. As I watch the world around me suffer from a self-inflicted anguish that I only wish I could do anything to help put a stop to, trapped by my own downfalls as a person, sometimes only one thought lingers in my mind for hours at a time.

How did we get here?
 

Through the Muscle…

My life isn't all philosophy. But I don't exactly have a lot to do at home or at school, so I think a lot. I guess that explains it.

I spent most of my day silently watching hundreds of people walk by, desensitized to the idea that each and every one of those hundreds of people had their own lives and stories and experiences that I would likely never know a thing about. My mind used to race at such a thought.

Now, though, I've long since been wringed dry of my sense of childlike wonder, as have so many others in this chasmic building filled with blaring fluorescent lights and deafening chatter.

Slam!

I heard the distinctive sound of someone punching a locker behind me. Why do people do that? I thought, Doesn't it hurt?

I turned around and saw a shorter guy, someone I recognized from my math class. I could tell he was smart, more so than most. And towering above him, taller than I am, was a girl looking down at him angrily. She was, in just about every sense, the exact opposite of him.

“Please, Miranda, can I just go to class?” he asked, trying to slide by her to the side. She blocked his path once more.

“Hey, I have a better idea. Why don't you quit being such a know-it-all?” she growled back.

“Why are you doing this?” he responded, sounding more defeated than scared.

“You think being a little snitch will get you places in life. Well, it won't! So why don't you quit being such a little know-it-all before I beat it out of you?”

He sighed, and I approached the two of them. She was clearly a good bit bulkier than me, but I wasn't scared.

“Hey, Miranda, was it?” I started, “knock it off.”

“No, this little runt is gonna get what he has coming to him!” she replied, raising her fist. I stepped between them, taking the majority of the blow right around my cheek bone. I felt a bit of blood pool up in my nose as I recoiled and caught my breath. I heard the boy running off as the girl chuckled maliciously.

“Oh, you're dead for that, girly,” she hissed, shoving me to the side and walking off to her next class. I shrugged off the punch and started making my way to class.

I'm not some big hero. Though, to a lot of people, I'm sure I seem like it. Thing is, I guess you could say I like getting into fights. And breaking them up just happens to be the best way to do that.

I'm not particularly extraordinary looks-wise, though I've been told I'm good-looking. I have shiny bronze hair that goes down almost all the way to my thighs and a pale face that's soft but slightly pointed, and I'm about 5 foot 7. I'm very average, statistically speaking, but I've received comments on my diamond-blue eyes, soft lips, and my bodily proportions so to speak. But I don't get much attention, so long as I lay low.

“Jasmine, you're a bit late. Where were you? And why is your nose bleeding?” my teacher asked, sounding both annoyed and concerned, as I walked in the room.

“Just happens,” I lied, the teacher rolling his eyes as I found my way to my seat, repeating a phrase in my head;

The less they know, the better.

It's not exactly a mantra. It doesn't bring comfort or serenity. And yet, I still repeat it in my head often. I guess it's like a word of advice, maybe warning, that I've lived by to avoid getting into trouble.

If there's anything important you need to know about me, you can figure it out pretty easily by the fact that I'm already bleeding, only about 2 hours into the day. I get into this kind of situation maybe once a week. I'm so used to the pain of taking a hit that most people will have to throw several punches before I start to lose my balance. The girl from earlier was a bit tougher, though.

I wouldn't call myself a “quiet kid,” per se, but I'm certainly not talkative. Aside from the interaction with that girl, Miranda, I hadn't spoken a single word out loud for the entire day, save for my daily greetings to my cat this morning.

As the school day drew close to its end, I knew what was to come, and I was ready. So, as I stepped out into the blinding lights outside the school building, I turned and leaned against the wall near the entrance. Sure enough, Miranda saw me. She came over to me, pulled me by the shirt, and threw me on the pavement.

“This'll teach you to mind your damn business,” she said, lifting me back up and onto my feet.

She shouted and threw her fist into my face, releasing me and sending me staggering backwards a couple feet. She pulled me back, switching our sides so her back was to the street, and resumed the beating. I felt my face and temples going numb from the damage, as well as the blood streaming down from my nose on both sides.

She kicked me in the stomach, kicked my ankle backwards, and swept my feet out from under me. I fell on my back on the cool asphalt yet again, this time with her getting onto her knees above me and continuing where she had left off, with the addition of occasionally lifting my head and pushing it back down into the ground beneath us.

“What's the matter? It's like you're not even trying to fight back!” she shouted. Suddenly, she seemed to lose her mind, grabbing my neck with one hand and throwing a flurry of swings with the other. I heard the bones in my nose snapping once or twice.

Finally, she stopped, breathing heavily. My body was limp, and my head dropped to the side, allowing me to see the blood pooling in red lakes against the black surface beneath it.

She stood up.

“Next time,” she said, breathlessly, “stay in your lane,” she concluded, spitting on the ground beside me and walking off.

After not moving for about half an hour, I slowly got up and started hobbling over to my car. I got in and started driving home, blood streaking the leather seats and steering wheel.

I got home, making my way slowly over to the front door and opening it.

I was greeted by a dark home, silhouettes of furniture giving it depth, the silence giving it ominicity. But those who like the feeling of danger can start to take comfort in ominicity.

The silence was consistent, save for a soft pitter-patter that got closer and closer from the next floor up, then down the stairs, then onto the table. That's when I saw the dark, oily shadow of the creature in front of me.

I shut the door behind me, turning on the light and revealing my cat, mewling softly at me with concern. I scratched the top of her head and started to speak, attempting to greet her, but instead let out a lot of air and fell over, knocking things on the table onto their sides and onto the floor. Slowly losing my grip, I slid to the floor, groaning as my vision blurred slightly.

I heard human footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Jasmine?” I heard my dad ask. He came over and lifted me up, setting me gently on a chair in the living room and turning the light on to see me better. I could barely see him, and yet I could clearly see the dark, dry red stains on the chair being overtaken by my blood, fresh and light, spilling onto the chair from my body. I heard my mom rushing down the stairs.

“Jasmine, are you alright? Can you speak?” my dad questioned.

“Oh my god, Jasmine, what happened?” my mom asked.

“I'll run and grab bandages. Stay here, keep her alert,” he told her.

“I will. Jasmine, can you hear me? Can you say something?” she prodded.

In all the commotion, I simply took a deep breath, sighing with relief. It's nice to be tended to. At least I don't have to worry about anything.

Over the next half hour or so, my dad bandaged me up while I made sure to keep my mom updated so they knew I was still conscious. Before long, I started to feel a little better. The entire time, my cat was watching from the couch, occasionally chittering at me. For once, if only for a moment, the entire house's attention was on me.

Afterwards, I assured my parents I was okay, and they went back to their room upstairs, and I went to mine on the first floor. I left my door cracked open, and my cat wandered in almost immediately, hopping up on my bed with me and bumping her head against my side. I chuckled softly and started petting her.

“Alright, Spook, I get it. I'm all yours now, alright?” I said softly to her, my gaze still pointed straight to the ceiling above me. She huffed at me and laid down against my body, meowing again to indicate her desire for more pets. I chuckled again, a bit louder, and put my arm gently around her, lightly petting her with my hand.

“Just the two of us, now, huh?” I asked, finally feeling fully at peace. I glanced at Spooky, eyes shut trustingly as she purred, her body vibrating against my arm, sleepy and warm as can be. “You and me, both,” I stated, regarding her state of relaxation as if she had talked to me about it.

So, I'm not exactly normal. I do things other people might find weird. Nothing immoral, per se, but most people don't go looking for fights to lose. But at least I have Spooky, and she'll be with me for as long as she can be.

I woke up alone in my bed like any other day. I stretched out, yawning, and got up. I looked out the window, seeing a translucent reflection of myself in front of the bluish shadowy street outside, my pale, blushy face contrasting with the dark surroundings and red-streaked black hair above it.

I went downstairs and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Sitting down to eat it, I still continued processing the day in front of me. A long day at school as always, before having to come home.

I heard my foster brother running around upstairs. Great, I thought, guess he's up. I cherish the few minutes in the morning before he awakens.

I finished my cereal, washed my bowl and spoon so I wouldn't have to later, and went back to my room, picking an outfit for the day.

Is today a red day? No.

Green, maybe? Not quite.

Blue. Yeah, today's a blue day.

I set aside dark, almost navy-blue colored t-shirt on with dark gray leggings and a black mini-poncho with a hood, finishing it with my pointy-toed black boots, my eyeliner, my navy blue headphones, and finally, my solid black backpack.

I spent the next several minutes getting dressed and ready for the day, watching out the window as the bluish tint outside quickly thawed with the rising sun into a warm, slightly more yellowish tint, albeit still mostly light blue, as it is autumn.

I finished getting dressed, looking in the mirror to admire it. I've got plenty of pieces that I can usually fit together pretty well. Black and blue are always good choices to go together, and the contrast with my pale skin tone and the single red streak in my black hair made it work nicely. I find that picking outfits depends on the day, as some days tend to somehow feel more like one color than another. Today had a sort of soft sadness feel to it, not tragic, but just mildly depressive. The dark blue and black felt like it complimented that vibe accurately.

It also depends on the person. Contrast is good, as long as it's not too much. And of course, it depends on your mood.

I continued looking in the mirror, reminding myself of who I am. With cartoony, glowing, emerald-green eyes, hair that's messy and fluffy that goes down just past my shoulders, and a whopping 4 feet and 11 inches of height…

I am Skylie Midnight.

And it's time for another horrible day.

I mean, a fun day! Full of adventure.

…To the Bone.

“Alright, class, everyone please quiet down and turn to page sixty-two…” the teacher at the front of the room droned, dozens of students behind desks before him complying in unison. History questions were thrown at the audience, and certain members would raise their hand and attempt to answer said question. I never once raised my hand. Not because I didn't know the answers, but because I simply didn't want to speak. A day I could go without people being reminded I exist is a day I could manage.

Stay distant, stay safe.

Classes went by, just dragging by like any other, and despite starting to think I was safe…

“Skylie, we've yet to hear from you, why don't you come up and try to answer the question?” my teacher prodded after asking a question, startling me. She seemed to think I hadn't paid attention, but that was her mistake. I always pay attention.

“No, thanks,” I quietly requested. She huffed.

“You always come in here and don't do any work, so now you're gonna come up and do something for a change.”

“It's 12x squared.”

She looked at me dumbfoundedly. I heard soft giggling throughout the room, but my gaz was shone from the nook inside of my hood, straight at the teacher.

“Very well. Moving on…” she continued.

After class, I was at my locker, sorting through my items and switching them out for my next class. When I shut the door, I was startled by someone waiting eagerly, looking at me, from behind.

“Hey! You're Skylie, right?” he asked.

“Umm…” I mumbled, taking a bit of a step backwards.

“I'm Artemis,” he continued, thrusting his hand way too close to my body, causing me to flinch again. I felt myself shaking. This was why I didn't like attention being put on me. It always ends up with anxiety-enducing social situations.

“I-” he cut me off, wearing an eerie smile on his face, “I think it's really funny how you can shut the teacher up like that. Wanna be friends?”

I could barely stand. The pressure was building up, and I felt my knees weakening. I gave up on trying to respond, yelping quietly and pushing past him to run to my next class.

My heart was pounding, and I was breathing heavily.

Why am I like this? I thought to myself. Ever since I can remember, I've struggled with social situations, to the point where I begin to feel an unreasonable anxiety whenever I'm put into them. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd like to have people I could comfortably call a friend, but I can never talk to anyone. Approaching other people is like some kind of monumental task, and being approached always results in me being too anxious to say anything.

I went to the restroom, taking deep breaths to calm down. Soon enough, I was relaxed enough to go back to class. Then I looked at the time on my phone and realized that half an hour had passed. It felt surreal. I couldn't recall it even being fifteen minutes, and yet double that had gone by.

I rushed back to class, gently setting my hood back atop my head. I vaguely heard my teacher protesting, mumbled “sorry,” and went to my seat. Luckily, it was the last class of the day, and the teacher is lenient.

I started walking home. It was chilly out, but I take comfort in the cold. The day was, as it had been before, a bit dreary in nature. The weather itself was fine, it was just one of those days that you can't quite describe why, but it just feels depressing. Those days tended to be unfavorable for me, for one main reason.

I got home, opening the door quietly and shutting it gently behind me. I went up to my room, removing my backpack and boots and letting myself fall onto my bed, face-first. I heard activity from the rest of the house. Milo, my foster brother, wasn't home from school yet, and I knew for a fact that Primrose, his sister, was in her room, reading quietly or texting her friends. With the man of the house at work, that left just one person to be making the noise I heard.

Great, I thought, mother is home.

I rushed to my feet, opening my backpack and setting some papers on my desk. I sat down with a pen in hand, starting my homework anxiously. I heard a pounding on my door just moments later.

“Coming,” I said, my voice cracking slightly from stress. I set my pen down and opened the door, and there she was.

Standing at about a foot taller than me, with dark hair and yellowish brown eyes and jagged facial features, my foster mother stood before me. My gaze met hers.

“Yes, ma'am?” I asked quietly.

“Is your homework done?”

“No, ma'am, I just got home.”

“Bullshit, Prim's been home for half an hour.”

I knew better than to tell her that Prim had a car and a license, able to drive herself from the school back to the house in less than five minutes, whereas I have to walk and it takes at least half an hour longer. Instead, I looked towards the floor.

“I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“You should be.”

The conversation had gone on for another minute or two, and I just wished I could forget what happened. What always happens.

~

I gently brushed my fingers across the aching spot on my face. There wasn't blood, there never is, but there was definitely a bruise.

I'll have to wear concealer tomorrow, I thought, lying in bed after finishing my homework, not that anyone would notice. Hell, even if I didn't.

As time passed, I didn't really have anything to do. I was left alone with my thoughts. A few minutes after the sun had set, I heard a quiet knock on my door. It jarred me a bit, making me jump, before I recognized the gentleness of it.

“Come in,” I mumbled. I heard the door slowly push open, then click shut. There were footsteps, then I felt weight at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, Sky,” Primrose greeted with a sort of cautious but protective tone to her voice.

“Hi, Prim,” I replied sullenly.

“Mom's in one of her moods?”

I nodded, and she responded with a sigh.

“I'm sorry, I really wish there was something I could do for you.”

“Please,” I responded, “you're the only person who actually believes me when I talk about the shit she puts me through, and you've somehow managed to help keep me just a little more sane. You do plenty, Prim,” I assured her, but her expression didn't lighten.

“But it's not enough.”

“It's more than enough.”

She shook her head. “Someday, you'll understand. What I do for you is the bare minimum. I don't actually do anything to help, though.”

“Bold of you to assume I'll be around long enough.”

“Don't,” she asserted. “Please, don't go there.”

“Okay, I'm sorry. I won't.”

“Goodnight, Sky.”

I mumbled vaguely back, being overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion. Prim left the room as quietly as she entered, and I was alone again, being kept up by the sound of Milo running rampant downstairs. Eventually, by some miracle, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up alone in my bed like any other day. I stretched out, yawning, and got up. I looked out the window, seeing a translucent reflection of myself in front of the bluish shadowy street outside, my pale, blushy face contrasting with the dark surroundings, shadowy purple bruise on my face, and red-streaked black hair above it.

Here we go again.