Short Sketches

She sits quietly in the corner, back pressed firmly against the walls for support. She's anything but sober--and yet she lifts the bottle to her lips one more time. The bottle makes a hollow sound as it's thumped against the cracked linoleum. The noise reminds her of her life.

Empty.
Meaningless.
Worthless.

The list goes on and on, etched roughly into the inviting skin of her forearms. She stops in the middle of another hearty sip; she hears a voice.

Quiet.
Seductive.

It calls to her, whispers her name. She spots the blade a few feet away, glinting beautifully against the ancient tiles. It begs to be reunited with her skin, cold metal and warm flesh meeting and mixing again.

She doesn't resist its calls.

Her fingers begin to shake from reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol simmering in her gut. She grips the blade tighter, eyes searching for an untouched piece of skin--a difficult task. She takes another long drag from the bottle and slowly lowers the blade.

Connect the dots.
Tic tac toe.

She plays game after twisted game with herself, darkening her jeans, until she can no longer hold herself up. She collapses into herself, dropping the blade. It skitters across the tile, settling next to a crumpled, worn photograph that depicts better times. She heaves with sobs, unable to bring herself to look at the picture even one more time.

The minutes tick by. The sun rises. And still, the only sound that can be heard is the near-silent crumble of long-tortured teenage dreams, finally giving up hope on a normal life.