Necrophobian.

The pricks of rage and the feeling of never getting back up. Betrayal is deep in your heart, always threatening to resurface to the color of your skin. You;ll always have that threat, of everything and anything that comes within five feet of you. Fear spikes your heart, curling deep down. Sickness in your throat. Cursing razorblades as you speak a simple sentence. It's coming back, and all a sudden, you're falling all over again.

Dreams, no nightmares, of darkness and screaming. Your own mind against you. Always . . . against you. You never thought you would be on your own this time, With your arms full of bruises and your eyes full of tears. Every night, you get about three hours of restless tossing and turning, in that bed you call home. It's nice when you get your hands on that hot cup of coffee.

The city promised you everything when you first came. Everything you called a life, everything you called a home. It lied to you. It took all you had and then some. The clothes on your back is all that's yours. Although, it did come with a few things. Maybe things you've never wanted, but it still gave with all its will. And you tried fighting back. With all your might, you fought with fists and heart and legs. You fought. But wheat you won wouldn't exactly be called a victory.

Little One, your heart is filled with sadness. Your mind always presenting you with thoughts you call hell. You just want it to go away. You want it all gone.

It's nothing it looks like. The sound is harmless, the name just a bunch of sounds and letters. Until, of course, it hits home, and you've got a cannon to your heart. Suicide. Who would've thought that just a word, an innocent word, could lead to something as big as yourself?

These feeling you have, the ones of no wind ever blowing or the rain always falling. You wonder if it'll go away. You wonder it always. Before, you could ignore it. But now? Now it's screaming in your ear. Nonstop. You block it out with drugs and alcohol. The one your daddy hid in the very top cabinet. He had bottles and bottles of different things. But they always had the same effect. Sometimes, you would just take a bottle to your room whenever he was out, hiding it under your multicolored pillows. Then, it was dreams of bright neon waters, and flashing lights. Them, it would give you the comfort no one else would think you went without. You would usually finish the bottle within three days. And of course, dear ol' Daddy would find out. And you would go to school the next day, your face sporting a black eye and your arms full of finger sized bruises.

You were a good liar. You lied to your teachers, when they asked about the constant dark coloring on your skin, you lied to your friends about why you couldn't go out that night, you lied to your ex, when he said he was worried about you. You said you were fine. You were an actress. One you thought was oh so talented. You never noticed that everyone could see the truth behind your pretty blues.

Stereotypes filled your life after that. The one who was always preppy and happy, now became the one that was called 'emo' and 'cutter'; although you had never cut a day in your life. Not on purpose, anyways. You never did it, but it was never not in your mind. After awhile, it was just there. It caught habit too, to be called either name at least twenty times a day. Like a lost dog, it always followed you around. You didn't want it. Never. But that was when you were younger. When you still had the ability to hide the pain from yourself. Now you crave it. Miserable without a scar or two. Your skin tingles without it. It became another addiction to your wall of regrets.

You tried it once, just once. No, not the cutting. But the whole deal. The cutting so deep, just to make it stop. You almost made it. You're surprised that it really didn't do anything but make the feeling ten times worse. Who would've thought something so deep and angry wouldn't scare everything else away?

You ended up losing friends after that. Your body only being a host to something so empty as yourself. You lost your love and your daddy. Although it doesn't sound like much, it was everything you heard.

In your small house, there's a light wooden guitar. It was a gift from your grandma, given the Christmas she passed. You were only twelve. It was the first death other then your moms you've ever been encountered with. It was before you lost all the ones you knew and loved. She had the spirit everyone claimed to want. Music always flowing whenever you visited. Her pretty white house filled with musical notes and pretty voices belonging to people you never met. Billy Joel and Eric Clapton were her favorites, and every once and a while, she would play Pink Floyd, only for you. She taught you the white and black keys of a piano and the strings of a guitar. Taught you how to hold your hand and tighten your grip. Once she died, you put your old 'Baby' away in her black case. You haven't gotten her out since. Only for the ties where the static overplayed song stalks you, do you get her out. Only then.

It's gathering dust, your Baby. When you walk by, your blood spreads through your veins. Even when you eat your dinner of air, you think of her. Half an hour later of your 'dinner', you're playing in on the corner of a busy street, singing 'High Hopes' for all those eyes that walk by.

When you get home, that bed that holds more fears then it looks grips you under it's lying soft surface.Even pillowed under a million feelings and memories, you can't stop thinking of that boy. The one that stopped and asked you to play some Hendrix for him. You spent minutes upon minutes talking about everything of music and guitars. When you're playing your version of 'Purple Haze', you see his smile. And then you play another song, just to see that smile through the darkness one more time. You're only nineteen, but you think you've found this little word called love. Even though it does belong to another nobody on the streets of Chicago.

You're high and wearing fourteen new streaks, seven on each arm, when you see him again. You smile and get the whole fifty - seven words out before you finally decide to walk home with a cold cappuccino and a date to the very same Starbucks on Saturday. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel the feint remembrance of happiness.

But with happiness, come regret, and you throw yourself in the pits of hate when you wake the next morning. Your sheets are stained with almost black blood, sticking to your arms as you try to move. The urge to breathe comes just as soon as the urge to throw up. You can feel the dry flakiness on your skin, dripping and dripping into your skin. Never stopping. You see your green walls change to gray, arms reaching towards your own form. The two windows in flames, covering the floor.

You run to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, there's acid down the drain and a few more cuts adoring your pale pale pale skin.

When Saturday comes, you find yourself freezing in Starbucks. You haven't even had your coffee yet. But you're smiling. A boy with light brown hair is sitting beside you, using wild hand gestures and speaking complicated words only you seem to understand. You forget your scars for that day. It's a bliss.

You keep seeing the boy, Brian, after that. But it seems harder to hide your baggage. Things you took as an everyday thing and things you're ashamed to admit. Your addiction list is now hidden in that safe lock of your mind. The combination is only with you, and you only. These little secrets aren't so little anymore, and they're shining on your face. You hold whatever keeps them inside just a little tight then you did before.

He finds out.

He leaves with angry words and a red face. Your wrists tingle with want, your skin becoming white at different harmful thoughts. You stay far from the bathroom, even though there are sharp things in every inch of the house. You can't run from them . . . You hurt. It feels like your chest is caving in and your head splitting in two. Your razors are calling for you, screaming your name over and over. Everything seems too loud. Bob Marley is singing to you through the speakers of your radio, even though the switch says 'off'. The walls are pitch black, engulfing the pictures of places around the world you want to see some day. Your shower is running with no one in it, your T.V. playing as loud as it can. And you hurt. You don't even take your coat when you head out into the cold winter night.

You end up in a church. A place you've hidden from since you were twelve. Somewhere you felt awkward and unworthy to be. You hated this place. But still, here you are. Sitting in the very back, with your blonde head down, towards your folded hands. There's no one in the room and your thoughts are reconnecting again.

You look up when you hear footsteps. At first you see nothing, but then a man with a tie comes into view. He's carrying a book and giving you a smile. He looks like what a Grandfather is suppose to. With the glasses and white hair. But even so, you feel the spike of fear run down your spine. He sits next to you, not too far, not too close. He asks you why you're here.

You tell him you needed to hind a way away.

He smiles even warmer and you feel the fear slowly crawl back in it's hole. He holds out the big book towards you and says to take it. You do. A solid weight in your hands. It's opening a door in your mind, memories and blackness flowing out, overpowering the realm of reality. You just lost control again.

He seems to sense your soon to be panic, and takes the time to talk to you with calming words. He says you're safe. And even though you don't believe him, you like how he speaks. With silent but powering words. You spend two hours in the church, with the book in your hands and the man with the tie. You begin to calm, and in this time, you feel safe.

But after some time, you go home. The man with the tie lets you keep the big book. He says he'll keep you in mind when he prays tonight. You don't really like the idea, but you thank him anyways. When you get home, that boy with the brown hair is asleep in the couch. You look him over and take the blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over him. You hear him dive deeper within the heat as you walk into your room.

You don't sleep that night. Instead, you read that big book. You know what the story is about, but you like the way it feels in your hands. They pages so easily bended, so fragile. Yet, it still stands strong through your frantic flipping. It feels nice. Reminds you of the man with the tie.

It's almost morning when the boy with the name of Brian comes into the room. At first, he does nothing but fall on the bed with you. With months of knowing each other, you've only been in this bed with him once, and that was when you two fell asleep watching a late night cliche horror movie on basic cable. But now, the bed with so many fears, lighten with his weight. Becomes calmer and more at peace. It's like the other half of the bed was made for him especially. He takes the book from you, as gently as ever, and turns to the middle. He starts to read out loud. His voice is like a melody, and you find yourself dozing off with your head on his thigh, his hand stroking your hair.

A week passes, and all is tense between you and the boy. You've never felt as wound up as you do now. He stayed at your house, rarely letting you out of his sight. Finally on Sunday, you surprise yourself and him when you burst into a speech containing mostly yells and words you would shame yourself for later saying. He looks at you calmly as he would if you asked for some butter on your toast. You yell at him more and when he finally stood from where he was sitting and walked towards you, you feel fear hurl itself at you, and you stop in mid sentence. You shake as he stops in front of you and reaches toward your face, coming back with his hand wet.

You talked for most of that night. You took your addictions out of that safe in your mind and told him whatever he wanted to know. You told him you were itching for a smoke and that you needed a razor on a daily basis. You told him you've had nightmares every night for the past ten years. You told him that when you came ti the city, you felt the hands of men you never wanted. You told him things you never told anyone else. It seems like the world shook at the release of the truth. Razorblades never once came out of your mouth once that night. It was around six in the morning when you agreed to take yourself to the treatment center.

Months later and you're still here. With a smile and a story, you're still living. You have the love of your life, and your scars as reminders. You still feel the pain, but you handle it with a book and a man with a tie. You tell your boy with the brown hair how you feel, and he holds you when your skin tingles. You still hurt, but your heart is still beating. You have a bigger house because of your new job. It allows you to spill your story while still having hot Starbucks in your hands. You are you, and you are me. With the same story, but with a few different parts. You are the boy with the red hair or the girl with the glasses. You are the one with the story who decided to speak up. You are every single one of us with one main difference.

You told your story.