The living, happy girl is dead now. The traitorous heart which once supported her has started pounding its way into oblivion, each shuddering breath a reminder of what once was life. At first she denied it, denied that her first thought each morning was of death, denied that everyday the smile she pasted on got a little harder to wear, the laugh a little more grating. And each night she went home and carved her anguish into her skin with a knife until her only true friend was the blade and she lived a hollow life.

All this hidden by silence. The silence of sobbing into the darkness behind closed doors, the silence of long sleeves over scars, the silence brought on by fear, by stigma.

You’re selfish, Society whispers, everyone feels sad sometimes.

And though she fought the voice and the silence, the pain and the all engulfing blackness, today the fight is over. Today she comes home with new energy. She talks and laughs, golden globe performance, and she lets no one see the pain inside, because, Society coos, no one cares. All the while she is impatient as time drags on, counting the heartbeats and breaths until the end. Until night falls and she is alone.

Just be happy. You’re doing this to yourself.

For months, her friend hid in her room, the paint brush, her skin the tapestry. And now she calls her friend and he comes, glinting silver in the night, casting a shadow upon her floor to match the one upon her heart. The only escape from a world that ignores her pain.
Stop feeling bad for yourself. No one cares.

She finds paper and pen and writes four words, ink running from the tears. For she is sobbing, choking to muffle a sound that refuses to be muffled. The silence is shattering, cracking, but this girl is already broken beyond repair, secure in the knowledge that no one will care.
Do it. No one will miss you.

Her friend is impatient. He wants to feed on blood, and the girl offers it up gladly. Her friend bites, tears, breaking skin, muscle, artery, until her body cries red tears upon the floor. She stares at her artwork, her blood the paint, her skin the canvas, her life the price.

And the door bursts open. Her crying has been heard, and the parents who will only ever love her are there. They hold her and take her only friend away.

Someone call 911.
But it’s too late.
Someone call 911!

But their child was dead years before this, walking through life a living shadow. As she falls, cradled in the arms of those who only heard too late, she smiles, surrounded by tears and shock. She smiles until the noise is gone, the light is gone, the pain is gone, replaced by silence.

And left behind are parents, friends, fooled by silence stemming from stigma. Her last message, lost amid the reddened carpet, dripping with blood and sadness: Sorry for the mess.
The once living girl is dead. But the silence is still alive.