Trashing, trashing. All she was doing. Trashing. Lying while believing. Refusing to see what was actually there to everybody’s acceptance. The self indecent and induced fakeness of her pain, the fear of non existing ghosts. The wounds were not healing, they kept bleeding in sequence. One after the other. She was cutting her own flesh over and over again. The bathroom floor had white and black square tiles. Aligned in sequence, white against black, good against evil, happiness against darkness.
That particular day it was sunny outside and at least birds were singing. The windows of her bedroom were covered, protecting her own little depressive corner of the world. Self pity some may say. Laying in the bathtub, hanging bleeding wrists were dropping blood over a white tile. One after the other until drops merged together to form an invading sea. When birds stopped singing, there were no more white tiles. All was red, all was blood. Her skin was white. Darkness in her bedroom was still intact, protected. She wasn’t there anymore.