Alexander is alone.
He's not alone, but damn, it feels like it.
Everyone around him seems like they're having their life together- like they are having fun, living their life.
While he's just standing there, not fitting.
Not knowing why he is, what he is and who he is.
He is color blind, and everyone he loves is talking about how pretty and colorful the world is.
Feelings ? Well, Alexander has lots of feelings.
But he never liked to speak about them.
They weren't normal feelings, they where horrible, unpure, dangerous feelings.
Instead of telling his stories, he wrote them down in his skin.
On his arms, his legs, his torso.
He carved his loneliness on himself, leaving it there forever.
He couldn't let people see his scars- or they would know.
They would know his deepest secrets, his darkest thoughts and all of the little thing that he only ever dared murmuring to the ears of the porcelain secret keepers he knew.
So he hid them.
Hid his traumas.
Hid his insecurities under layers, and layers, and layers of clothing.
It was a bit overwhelming sometimes- hiding under tones of sweaters in the heat of the summer provocated a suffocating feeling- but, it wasen't as suffocating as the judgmental glares he knew he'd get if he ever dared show himself.
But...he wouldn't be able to hide this forever.
This is where Eliza enters in this story.
Yes, Eliza is kind, wonderful and gorgeous and whenever Alexander sees her, he feels a buzzing feeling in his veins, butterfly flying in his stomach, wrapping his lungs and his hearts sometimes making it hard to think or breathe, he feels suddenly timid and happy.
It sounds cheesy but don't worry the happiness ends there.
Because as soon as she's gone, as soon as she finished her joke making Alex laugh or when she stops mid way in her story because she's late for her meeting and she'll 'see him later' Alexander is like pushed back into the hell of a storm that he call his mind, he's like backed up against a wall, locked in his own terror and the voices are back.
Who is he kidding,
The voices where always there.
She'll never love you.
Do you seriously think you have a single chance with her ?
You're nothing to her, she probably forget your names every now and then.
Even if she ever took you by pity and go out with you, if she learns what's hiding under the fabric, she'd run away screaming.
It's disgusting how stupid you can be. No one loves you, you should just accept the fact that you're going to die alone.
And the voices keeps repeating themselves until he's thrown away from the screaming of the voices and he opens his eyes and suddenly he's back in the real world and Elizabeth is there.
It almost seems like she can fix everything-
Alexander had an habit of spacing out during panick attacks, what's new.
But, the more he and Elizabeth hang out, the more happy he felt.
After two month of talking and flirting and getting to know each other, Eliza was with him.
They where a couple !
It felt so unreal, but he wasen't dreaming !
He proved the voice wrong. They proved the voice wrong, even if Eliza did unconsciously.
A month together and it's like he's able to see life again. Under a new light, his vision about life is crystal clear and he's happy. This twisted version of a world he thought he knew, looked brand new and colorful now.
Well, that's what Elizabeth's support and his andti depressants told him.
So happy, more than he had been in years, so happy that maybe, just maybe- depression is gone.
Ah, that's funny.
Depression is never gone. She wraps you up with her cold and dark body and never really leaves.
She follow you everwhere and whenever you think that you've finally escaped her and her death grip, she catch you and blindfold your mind with a sheet of sadness, exausthion and emptiness, and everything gets back to normal.
Or, what you would call normal.
Something that clearly, to anyone with a healthy mind, wouldn't call normal.
You feel numb, you're always mentaly drained, you'd get irritable more easily, you'd yell at your friend for no reasons, say sorry 210th time in a row for something futile, starts crying over thing that aren''t worth your time and you just don't know anymore.
And he feels horrible again, and the feeling won't go away.
It'll never go away.
So, to dull the pain with more pain, he does what he needs to do.
He brandish his knife and torture the already torn skin and flesh of his limbs, watching his arms and legs cry their sorrow away with thick, gorgeous, red tears.
Now his whole body is a mastetpeice, made with only the use of a silver knife, slicing so neatly, peircing his skin so easily.
He shake his head and laugh bitterly.
It's of no use to try and understand any of this.
The feeling never stops.