Post by Libby on Apr 12, 2008 19:25:49 GMT -5
...been admitted to Saint Sebastian’s following a reported drug overdose. Our sources tell us that Charlie Pace...
No. NO. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It... it was. She knew it. She knew it the second she read it. She knew it before it had happened. How many times had she cleaned up his messes? How many times had she turned a blind eye while he hid his needles and rolled down his shirtsleeves? How many times could she have said something and chose not to?
Unable to read anymore through the tears that blurred her vision, Libby dropped the paper back to the table and covered her mouth with her hands to keep herself from screaming. It didn’t work. This was her fault. All her ideas about wanting to help people and she had stood by and watched her closest friend destroy his life when she could have been helping him. Letting out a blood curdling scream, she swung her arm, knocking her breakfast dishes to the floor where they shattered, but it wasn’t enough. Continuing to shriek, the tears running unbidden down her cheeks, she grabbed anything she could get her hands on, throwing it around the room. Then came the drawers full of cutlery and utensils. One by one they clattered on the tiles. It wasn’t until one slipped in her hand, spraining her wrist, that she finally stopped. Her screams turning to sobs, she slumped to the floor, her back against the counter.
She had just wanted him to like her, and she hadn’t wanted to upset him, but she might as well have administered the drugs herself. Her silence was just as deadly. She didn’t deserve to be his friend. Wiping her eyes, they fell upon a sharp knife by her right foot. She didn’t deserve to live. Reaching out with a shaking hand, she grabbed the knife, the overhead light making the blade glimmer. It would be easy. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried before. She just had to make sure she succeeded this time or they would send her back there.
Holding the blade to her wrist, the cold steel sent a chill down her spine. It would be easy. Putting pressure on the knife, she watched how it puckered her skin, not so young and smooth as it had once been. Slowly she started to drag the blade, wincing at the stinging pain. Crimson beads of blood began to pool at the surface, spreading across the blade...
“NO!” she screamed suddenly, throwing the knife as far from her as she could. Grasping her wrist tightly with her other hand, she rocked forward then back, her spine hitting the cabinet behind her dully. It wasn’t too deep, too long; she could fix it. Nobody had to know. She could hide it; sweatbands, bracelets and she wore gloves at work. Nobody would know. They wouldn’t send her back, not again.
What was she doing? It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t helped, but she hadn’t done it to him, and what would he think if he found out? How would he feel if it was because of him that she had died? No, she could never do that to him. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t need more pain. He needed a friend. She could still be his friend, a good friend; the best. She could help him through this now, she could be there for him whenever he needed her. Yes, it wasn’t too late; she could still help him. But first she had to help herself. She had to... do something. Run. Yes, she had to run. Run until her legs ached and her lungs screamed for relief. It was only when she exercised that she felt peace, that she felt whole. It was then that she truly felt like she knew who she was.
Maybe a change too. She’d been blonde long enough, it was time for something different. A new Libby, a stronger Libby. And despite the grief, despite the pain and despite the destruction that surrounded her, she suddenly laughed. It was soon Christmas, after all. It was a time for happiness. Maybe she would get him a gift. Maybe she’d even get something for Nancy too, the old bat. Getting to her feet, a bright smile on her tear stained face, Libby paid no attention to the mess around her as she just walked over it and went to bandage her wound. The fresh air was calling her. It was such a beautiful day.
No. NO. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It... it was. She knew it. She knew it the second she read it. She knew it before it had happened. How many times had she cleaned up his messes? How many times had she turned a blind eye while he hid his needles and rolled down his shirtsleeves? How many times could she have said something and chose not to?
Unable to read anymore through the tears that blurred her vision, Libby dropped the paper back to the table and covered her mouth with her hands to keep herself from screaming. It didn’t work. This was her fault. All her ideas about wanting to help people and she had stood by and watched her closest friend destroy his life when she could have been helping him. Letting out a blood curdling scream, she swung her arm, knocking her breakfast dishes to the floor where they shattered, but it wasn’t enough. Continuing to shriek, the tears running unbidden down her cheeks, she grabbed anything she could get her hands on, throwing it around the room. Then came the drawers full of cutlery and utensils. One by one they clattered on the tiles. It wasn’t until one slipped in her hand, spraining her wrist, that she finally stopped. Her screams turning to sobs, she slumped to the floor, her back against the counter.
She had just wanted him to like her, and she hadn’t wanted to upset him, but she might as well have administered the drugs herself. Her silence was just as deadly. She didn’t deserve to be his friend. Wiping her eyes, they fell upon a sharp knife by her right foot. She didn’t deserve to live. Reaching out with a shaking hand, she grabbed the knife, the overhead light making the blade glimmer. It would be easy. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried before. She just had to make sure she succeeded this time or they would send her back there.
Holding the blade to her wrist, the cold steel sent a chill down her spine. It would be easy. Putting pressure on the knife, she watched how it puckered her skin, not so young and smooth as it had once been. Slowly she started to drag the blade, wincing at the stinging pain. Crimson beads of blood began to pool at the surface, spreading across the blade...
“NO!” she screamed suddenly, throwing the knife as far from her as she could. Grasping her wrist tightly with her other hand, she rocked forward then back, her spine hitting the cabinet behind her dully. It wasn’t too deep, too long; she could fix it. Nobody had to know. She could hide it; sweatbands, bracelets and she wore gloves at work. Nobody would know. They wouldn’t send her back, not again.
What was she doing? It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t helped, but she hadn’t done it to him, and what would he think if he found out? How would he feel if it was because of him that she had died? No, she could never do that to him. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t need more pain. He needed a friend. She could still be his friend, a good friend; the best. She could help him through this now, she could be there for him whenever he needed her. Yes, it wasn’t too late; she could still help him. But first she had to help herself. She had to... do something. Run. Yes, she had to run. Run until her legs ached and her lungs screamed for relief. It was only when she exercised that she felt peace, that she felt whole. It was then that she truly felt like she knew who she was.
Maybe a change too. She’d been blonde long enough, it was time for something different. A new Libby, a stronger Libby. And despite the grief, despite the pain and despite the destruction that surrounded her, she suddenly laughed. It was soon Christmas, after all. It was a time for happiness. Maybe she would get him a gift. Maybe she’d even get something for Nancy too, the old bat. Getting to her feet, a bright smile on her tear stained face, Libby paid no attention to the mess around her as she just walked over it and went to bandage her wound. The fresh air was calling her. It was such a beautiful day.
