Who: Sally Ann (Can be stand alone or OPEN to Oliver Wood) What: Giving in to the voices Where: Home, the kitchen When: Backdated to yesterday, Saturday, Sept 13 Rating: WARNING. SERIOUS TRIGGER ISSUES. SELF HARM, DEPRESSION, ETC. Read at your own risk, yo.
To say that Sally Ann's life had been hell was probably an understatement. Abused by her real father, then abandoned with her mother to fend for themselves. Living off the streets, trying to survive in a homeless shelter, and then finally her step father. He had probably been the only positive part of Sally's sad life, and for the next decade she had managed to live in relative happiness. But then Voldemort happened, and her step father had just been another casualty. Her mother had fallen into a catatonic state, and Sally Ann had to do whatever she could to survive. Strip, sell drugs, steal... whatever would put some food in her mouth, a shirt on her back, and a roof over her head was all right with her. Though it wasn't glamorous or good by any means, it was survival. And she had always felt strong. But now? All she wanted to do was disappear.
The voice in her head, her voice, had started off as nothing more than a nuisance. Doubting herself, her life decisions, but that something she had always done, but never to this extent. Sure, for a time she was ashamed of herself, even hated herself, really, especially on those nights when she just wanted to fall to the floor bawling when waves of creepy men had their eyes glued to her skin. When she had to terminate an unborn child because of her situation, that had probably been the lowest of the low. She had contemplated killing herself after that, if she were being truthful, but she had always managed to rise above it. Always managed to convince herself that there was a better life out there, that she had to do those terrible things, but that didn't make her a terrible person. At the end of the day she was stronger than all that negativity, and she learned that she couldn't hate herself for the situation she had been dealt. Dislike? Maybe. But hatred? There was no point to it. And just ending it wasn't the answer, it never had been to her, until the last couple of days.
It just kept getting louder, reminding her of all the awful, gut wrenching things she had to do in her life. Reminding her that she was garbage, that even her own mother couldn't find it in her to care enough about her only child to want to live. That her stepfather had never really cared, just pitied her. That her entire life was a waste, she would never make anything of herself, and most importantly, she was going to burn in hell for how horrible of a human being she was. And why continue on? Why keep making life miserable for those around her? Why did she even exist? What was the point? What was she getting out of it? How could she even live with herself? She wasn't strong, she was disgusting. She was weak. She was a slut, a murderer, a drug addict. The world didn't need her type, it would be better, so much better, if she were just gone. Just one more worthless life extinguished. No one would mourn her, no one would care. She didn't have anyone anyway.
She had tried to fight it, tried to get away from it but even her usual excessive drinking that managed to quell the thoughts in the past didn't help. Really they only made her voice worse, more cruel. It seemed never ending, and it ate away at her. She had barely even managed to get out of bed that day. Work? She didn't go. Instead she had drained almost an entire handle of whiskey throughout the day, and managed to quietly make her way down the stairs. The entire time her voice was coaxing her on, cheering and jeering at her, both at the same time. It wanted her to end it all. It told her that everything would be better when she was gone, she would be better when she was gone. It all seemed to make so much sense....
Sally wasn't sure if her room mate was home, but honestly the voice in her head was so loud she didn't even care. She couldn't think of anything else besides what it was saying to her, what it was telling her to do. Walking close to the sink, she looked out the window as the sun began to set in the horizon. It was a gorgeous sunset, one that she would remember. The voice was excited now, urging her forward, telling her this was the best choice she had made in her entire life. This was right.
A tear streamed down her cheek as she opened the knife drawer, taking out the one she thought to be the sharpest. Staring at her reflection in the metal for what seemed like forever, she looked down at her arms, gently running the cool metal over old track marks. Somewhere in the back of her head she was trying to fight this, but whatever this was, what seemed to be her voice, was just so fucking strong. She let out a cry before biting her tongue and slicing into the soft flesh. She didn't cut across, because well, she needed to mean it. That's what her head was saying, and drew the knife down from the crease in her elbow to the center of her arm. ALL THE WAY she screamed in her head as her hand shook, trying to make herself stop. Blood was dripping down the sides of her arm, a steady drip could be heard on the floor by her feet. She cut a tiny bit more, and her voice seemed to cry out in triumph.
But then she jerked her arm away, throwing the knife halfway across the room. It scattered over the floor before finally coming to a rest out of her reach. GO GET IT her own voice told her, pleading with her to just end it. To find the strength and courage to finish the job. But she shook her head at herself, full tears streaming down her face as she put as much pressure on the wound as she could to slow the bleeding. "No," she whispered quietly, almost pained. Maybe it was right, maybe this was the best thing to do, but she just couldn't. This wasn't her. No matter how much it felt like her, sounded like her, it couldn't be. Because she wouldn't do this. She couldn't. She would not be her mother. She would not simply give up. If she did, what would everything have been for? All the pain and the bullshit, it would have been entirely in vain.
Biting her tongue she only cried to herself a bit louder, gently hitting her head against the sink cabinet. It matched the throbbing of her arm beneath the pressure of her hand. But she wouldn't let go. She wouldn't bleed out. Even with the voice, as strong as it was, she would always make the choice to want to live.