Written to The Priest And The Matador by Senses Fail. Sucks, I know. Tell me what you don't like about it. Or do? That paranoia thing, you know.
Oh how easy, if I were to slip and fall...
Shaking my head, I stare out at the sky. Just because we haven't talked for weeks doesn't mean I have to jump off a fuckin' building. He's just a friend, we don't even really hang out. But this pit of depression is killing me... I hate how much he influences my emotions. It's because I care too much, I know. I am one clingy bitch. He was offering me respite from my mask, and I gladly took it.
Ah, yes. The mask. The persona of a caring, overemotional fourteen old, played by an insecure, overemotional, empathetic shy kid, incredibly self conscious with little self esteem. A cutter, who's forearms are scattered with pigmy sized lacerations all over. Yeah, that's me, a worthless nothing, who can't even help her own friends.
And then he came along, the voice of reason, someone who was amazing at pretending to care, or really did... I don't know which. I just can't believe that someone would care. Paranoia, you see.
But he got me to stop cutting. That's pretty fucking amazing. Do I still miss the bite, the cold, the pain, the relief? Yes. Do I really fucking want to? Hell yes. But will I? No. I promised him. I don't take those lightly.
But now, would anyone miss me? No. You see, I think he hates me now. I fucked up. I feel like I used him the way my friends used me...
Then I realize what I just thought. No one would miss me. No one would care I I jumped off this church right here and now.
Casting my eyes downward towards the street, I notice no one's really there. It'd be a while before anybody'd notice.
I'm going to do it.
And suddenly, I'm slipping backwards from my perch, hands outstreched, falling down, feeling the air on my rapidly flushing cheeks and it lifting my hair into my face. Yes. Freedom, finally.
It's funny how free you feel when you're falling. At the time, you're not worrying about the repercussions or the pain. You're not even thinking. Just feeling. Everything is slow. I can take in the details of my surroundings and notice things I've never seen before. Like how blue the sky is, or how bright the sun, or how rough the tarmac is beneath my-
Suddenly the pain is nauseating, but I can't move. I can't fucking move. I'm screaming, I realize, and people are gathering around the edge of my vision, otherwise taken over by clouds suspiciously shaped like dogs and cats.
"Oh dear God, I think she fell!" I hear a feminine voice yell. I wanted to correct her, so bad, but I couldn't make the correct sounds.
I'm going to hell, I think to myself. Suicide, in front of a church? Please. I was just asking for it. This broken body, shaped like an upside down cross.
A priest rushes to my side. He's reciting something from the Bible, probably my last rites.
"Father, you're too late," I croak, "My faith is weak... So won't you save your... Halfhearted speech..."
My voice trails off as my head flops to the side. I can feel the heat of the pavement on my lips as my eyes flutter. How ironic, I thought to myself. I've managed to ruin what I've sacrificed myself for...
Someone bends down and whispers, "We're gonna get through this one. Take my hand and let us pray-"
"Please get the FUCK AWAY!" I scream, managing to gather enough energy to stare at the man.
Yeah, definitely going to hell. Stupid Willow.
I can hear ambulances ringing, see the cops pushing back the crowd. Yelling, "Give her some space!"
Man, I wish he had done that to me.
It's getting progressively harder to breathe, so I take in one, deep breath. I can feel warm liquid trickling down my mouth, which I presume to be blood due to the metallic taste it has left in my mouth. One man finally walks into my line of fluctuating sight. Is this it?
"She's dead. Call it," I hear a female whisper, saddened.
"The time of death is half past six," I hear him state, before I finally close my eyes.
"Hey!" the teenager screams, "What's wrong with my friend? Why can't I see her?!"
"Who are you looking for?" the receptionist asks calmly, piercing green eyes reminding him of his best friend.
"Oh," she whispers. Now she looks sad. "You just passed the morgue."
Jace shakes his head. "What the hell would Willow be doing in a fucking morgue?!"
"Didn't you hear?" the woman questions quietly, tears starting to well up in her eyes. "She's dead."