MASTERPIECE THEATRE, III.

I will softly pull away..

You get home from school, and it's the last straw.

That stupid Vega chick stole your boyfriend.

First she steals your spotlight, then she steals your friends, one by one, and now the only thing you had left, the only thing that kept you anchored to this hell that is earth, is gone. You got in another fight with him, she had been the subject. He had defended her the whole time, that stupid deceptive bastard.

"If you love her so much, why don't you date her?" You had screamed.

In this broken beautiful mess I've made..

Your parents are off somewhere, probably suing some rich celebrity skank or something. They probably love money more than they love you, you realize with a snort. Fine, fuck them too. You don't exactly care, so you don't even know why you're thinking about it. You stomp up the carpeted stairs before you change your mind, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the white carpet behind you.

You storm into your room and slam the door shut behind you. You swear you heard the hinge crack a little bit but it doesn't register in your mind. Your blood is boiling at a thousand degrees and you're sure your face is probably livid. God knows you feel livid. Your mind is in a red haze, and you can't think about anything except how much you want to kill Tori Vega right now. You decide that you officially hate Beck, too. Honestly, what kind of boyfriend was he? He didn't deserve you. Suddenly, you're lightheaded. You realize you're so mad right now that your vision's beginning to fill itself with blurry black dots. If you don't calm down soon, you'll pass out. The mist clears, leaving your mind unusually calm and serene. Icy calm, even. You realize something. It wasn't him who didn't deserve you..

You didn't deserve him.

The dawn of this realization makes everything fade. You're not even mad anymore, you don't even feel sad and yet when you see yourself in the mirror of your vanity you can't believe you've been crying this whole time. You almost laugh at the raccoon-eyed appearance of your face and then you remember why you're crying in the first place. You realize that now, you have nobody. Tori was the center of attention and the sun that everybody revolved around, if you crossed Tori, you crossed everyone. All the guys, at least. Of course you would still have Cat, if you hadn't gone and embarrassed yourself by kicking Beck in the balls right in front of her and you could've sworn you heard a gasp from her direction. She was like a delicate flower or some other pitiful metaphor that you're not bothered to come up with right now, and your vulgarity probably scared her off and seriously, fuck Tori Vega. Deciding you're done with it, your eyes flicker to that one pencil case you hide your scissors in. After all, you have nothing else to lose, except your life. You honestly wouldn't care if you lost that too, because honestly, you were like the walking dead already.

Now or never, no regrets.

Your shoulder bag goes flying into to the other end of your blatantly plain room and lands on the floor with a loud thud. You don't even flinch. Grabbing your pencil case and a small handheld radio, you walk over to your window and open it. You take a deep breath and crawl outside, cautiously making your way up the slippery blue shingles. Once you're comfortably straddling the peak of the roof, leaning your back against the chimney, you place your radio between your legs. You turn on the radio and you turn up the volume to it's loudest. The music is beating and thudding loudly and you know that if someone came home right now they wouldn't be able to hear your screaming over the sound of Mariana's Trench. You fumble awkwardly between gripping the radio in the tight vice of your hand(don't want it to fall off the roof now, do you?) and opening the zipper on your pencil case. You rummage through the case with your free hand and find what you're looking for.

The scissors have a purple plastic handle, they were the kind with the extra 'hook' that jutted out of one of the finger-holes, and it reminded you of the ones your hairdresser uses. The blades themselves are a bright silver colour except for a little bit of what looked like rust on the razor-sharp edges. You had spent quite a bit of time sharpening it, and it did it's job perfectly.

When you pull back your sleeve, you can't help but analyze your skin. It's porcelain white and you realize you would look like a vampire if you didn't have all those criss-cross scars on them. You always cut in X shapes because you thought it looked pretty, like your arm was wearing a girdle or a corset. The base of your wrist right by your elbow has the largest X, and they just progress down your arm until the smallest X stops right under your palm. You always cut once for everything that was wrong, so all of those Xs toppled on top of each other meant things were wrong a lot. You start to sniff quietly as you remember, vividly, the purpose and reasoning behind every scar, every line on your wrist. Before you even know it, there are tears running down your face and the mist is back except this time it's blue, and you can't see past the tears. Your hand comes up shakily and the shiny blade of the scissors line up with your wrist. You can see your reflection in the glistening silver blade and your face contorts in disgust at the sight of itself.

Push, drag. Lift. Push, drag. Lift. You do this several times, hacking at your arm with the scissors until it's reduced to looking like something a toddler would draw. Blood oozes out of your arm and beads up, you admire it because it looks kind of like a bracelet. A barbed wire bracelet. That would be a cool tattoo. You drag the fresh cuts so that they wrap all the way around your wrist, and they do look like bracelets now. You hold your arm up to inspect your work and can't help but smirk as the red liquid drips down your wrists. You lurch forward as you almost lose your balance and sigh in relief as you gain it back. Close one- even if you cut yourself, you didn't want to die yet. You still had to kick Beck in the balls again. You don't even realize that the silence you hear now has been ringing in your ears since you'd dropped the radio, five or ten minutes into your little cutting session. You dare peer over the edge of the roof and see that it's fallen into the gutter. You grumble in annoyance and try to slide down the roof to retrieve it.

You're going down the shingles, slowly but surely and you can't help but to remember that your dad said something about a hole in the roof or a loose shingle or something worrying while you're doing so, and as the ceramic breaks loose under your left foot and you slip down the roof at an adrenaline-pumping rate, you realize what he had said.

"Jade, I don't want you up on the roof anymore. The shingles are unstable because the construction workers who built it didn't use the proper kind of glue to hold them down."

You remembered scoffing sarcastically and rolling your eyes.

"I mean it, Jadelyn." And you know he's serious because he just used your full name and he never uses your full name, so you nodded your head and rolled your eyes after he went away.

And in the dead of quiet,

You fall towards the edge of the gutter and skyrocket off of it, shooting like a missile towards your garden. You don't know what to do with your feet and arms and as your heart is about to beat out of your chest, you realize that your wrist blood is flying behind you and you must look like some crazy hematologic superhero, you were the leprechaun and the arc of blood behind you was your rainbow. You're so scared and so lost in the air you almost piss yourself, but even in a situation like this, you look down and note what a gorgeous backyard you have.

The last thought you remember having is 'Fuck you, Tori Vega' before you land on the ground with a gut wrenching wail.

I will slowly fade..

After that, the mist is back, and this time, it's black.

In this masterpiece I've made