Broken Glass

For a while there, my life was like broken glass- once beautiful, and perfect, but now ugly, and in splinters.

And yet, pieces of broken glass have a beauty of their own, don't they? Jagged lines of purity, the light reflecting over them...they really can be very beautiful, but of course, a different sort of beautiful.

I had so many hopes too- hopes and dreams, like the most delicate of butterfly kisses in the hurricane that's inside me right now.

Isn't it odd sometimes how life can suddenly become a chore, something you'd rather not do, or live anymore?

I used to wish that sometimes my heart would stop beating, the blood would stop flowing, and the breaths would stop coming.

I was too chicken to do it myself, though. I'm a Ravenclaw, not a brave Gryffindor.

Suicide seemed like a far away distant thought nestled in the back, dark confines of my mind, coming into play during especially trying times.

But it was always there, lurking...

I only became acutely aware of it after my 6th year. There was no possible way I would have thought of it otherwise. It was after Cedric, after Harry, after Michael. I just couldn't stand the heartache, the tears at night.

It was getting to the point where it was almost ridiculous. I must have attempted suicide about four times that summer, in various ways. I knew I couldn't possibly Avada Kedavra myself- I would never be able to say the words, suffering with indecision and hesitation.

That also meant I couldn't poison myself, or even kill myself through Muggle means.

And the pathetic thing is that nobody knew. Nobody knew I was doing this to myself, nobody knew I really didn't want to live anymore.

They all thought I was doing fine- a bit gloomy, but still fine.

How very wrong they were.

How very, extremely, horribly wrong they were.

Was I that good of an actress? To be able to convince my closest friends and family that I was okay? Why, I practically wear my feelings like layers of iridescence- appears to be colorful, and complicated, and rather mixed, but once you take a closer look, the layers are clear, allowing you to really see what I'm thinking.

Maybe they didn't know me as well they thought they did.

Maybe I don't know myself as well as I thought I did. A year ago, I would have laughed at the thought of me committing suicide.

This year, I laugh too, but for an entirely different reason. I laugh because the idea is pleasing to me; the idea of death, the idea of never seeing most of these people who've made my life hell without even knowing it, it's all very nice to me.

After all, is not being alive just a step in the process of...life? Life as a whole, including death, and whatever may come after death.

What if you're done with your step early? What if you simply don't want to live anymore?

What do you do then?

Do you continue on to the next step?

There's another world unseen by living eyes, and I want to be a part of that world. I don't want to be a part of this world anymore, where things that used to matter to me, don't matter half as much as they did. I don't want to be a part of this world where love is casual, and peace is scarce.

I don't care about Quidditch, I don't care about my friends, my family, boys, Hogwarts- I don't care about my life anymore.

I just want to end it, to be granted that eternal peace which I think I rightly deserve.

Maybe I haven't seen much of this world, but frankly, I don't want to. I don't want to go look at meaningless statues, and buildings that mean so little to everything else. This world is like poison to me, and the longer I stay, the more despair I'm in.

And I can't take that anymore.

But how do you say good-bye? How do you leave a friend knowing that it's the last time you will ever talk to them again? How do you walk up a flight of stairs knowing that your footsteps will never echo in the hallway again?

I don't know the answer to that either.

But I've made my choice, and I can't back down.

I've forsaken this cold, cruel, bitter, poisoned, dying world in hopes of perhaps finding something better.

They say that time can heal all wounds. Well, they can't, and time only makes the wound deeper and deeper as it goes on.

How can I want to live like this? Like a shadow, like a memory, like a ghost?

I don't want to, and I won't live life like this. I refuse to.

I just can't do it anymore.