Life By Taylor Whitehouse
Celine gets up from her laptop resting on her desk with blurred vision, almost seeming as if she’s wearing foggy glasses. Her eyelids weighed down from the tears that are longing to be set free. She stumbles over to her cupboard opening several drawers, coming to the last one. She reaches her hand in, gripping onto and pulling out a knife. Staring at it, Celine slowly makes her way to the bathroom closes and locks the door, and collapses into a heap, dropping the knife next to her.
Sitting on the bathroom floor, she [footnoteRef:1]weeps buckets of tears thinking about loneliness. Such a dark place. It can make anyone feel like they’re in a room with one thousand people but being invisible to every one of them. Every single day for as long as Celine can remember, waking up knowing that she’s going to spend all day by herself once again has been the hardest part. Darkness. This word fashioned only to describe the emptiness of another. People say that darkness brings nothing but despair, although for Celine it doesn’t. Darkness is cold, unfeeling, passionless; but it is the closest thing she has to a friend. Its warmth enriches her with the affection essential for the rebuilding of her happiness only to be broken down by her loneliness. All of her senses suddenly become heightened as she begins to hear the emptiness of the room in which she’s sitting in. Her eyes like curtains as they slowly open wider and wider to the tiled floors and the creamy pigment of paint etched on the bathroom walls surrounding her. The icy tiles of the floor send chills through her, with the room deprived of colour and decoration almost imitating the loneliness she constantly feels. The window looking out at the moribund [footnoteRef:2]autumn trees swaying in the cool breeze. [1: Metaphor ] [2: Season of “The Road Not Taken”]
She picks up the knife with shaky hands and tears running down her soft, rosy cheeks, longing to feel anything but the excruciating emotional pain she’s been dealing with for her whole life. The knife trails across her left wrist while she’s groaning in agony and quivering. She then switches and...