Five Letters Following

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F R E A K

Everywhere I go, they’re there. But why?

I get called a lot of things, but in Delirium, I am called just one; Freak. And now that they’ve carved it in my hand, I won’t ever forget it.

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Daniel knows something I don’t. That’s nothing new, but I don’t like it. Only one thing’s certain; I have far too many scars for my own good, and this won’t be my last token from Delirium.

The F@ck You List

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Hello humanity!

Merry fucking Christmas!

Okay…now that I’m out of my cave of depression and chocolate, time for my first Christmas speech.

No I don’t care that it’s three days early. I want to write NOW.

Grrrr.

This is my first year writing this stuff. As some of you nonexistent readers may know, I had started this blog after I had attempted suicide, in order to get stuff out of my head. 

So. Nine days till the year ends.

How do you celebrate the end of a year that has been absolutely shit?

I present….the Fuck You List. It’s exactly what is sounds like.

So fuck you:

1- Brain. Thanks to you, I have scars on my hands, scars on my leg, a horrible sense of what is reality, and two imaginary friends.

2- Flash. You gave me hope and then you took it away. We’re friends, I’m guessing, but I’m not going to be so stupid as to trust you. Not as much as I did anyway.

3- Daniel. Fuck you for following me when I ran away, and continuing to piss me off ever since.

4- Benedict Cumberbatch, for ruining my expectations of men.

5- Mum, for your moodswings and violent outbursts.

6- Dad, for trying to drag me out of my room by my hair an hour ago. Never. Drag. Me. Out. By. My. Mother. Fudging. Hair.

7- Kaya, for not taking over and scratching my father’s eyes out an hour ago. Also, where the hell have you been for the last six months? Thanks to you, I’m suicidal, depressed, anxious, oh, did I mention Flash dumped me because of the hallucinations you gave me? Fuck you Kaya.

8- Queen Paris-ite. I do have friends. They are awesome, funny, and have more brain cells than you. And for your sake, we won’t start on my hair.

9- Slenderman, for causing me to laugh during Mass, you seedy bastard. And for those who want to know why, think about how this could be interpreted: Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come agaaaaaaain. Don’t you have anything better to do than make me go red in the face from laughing? Also, apologies to those seedy nonexistent people who read that and understood the other meaning, and if you never take Mass seriously again, it’s my fault.

10- Papa Willis’ ex girlfriend. Not only did you hurt him, but you hurt me and Batman. Noone is perfect, especially not us. That definitely does not mean we are horrible people.

11- Doctor Who. I’m going to be borderline inconsolable at Christmas. I LOVE YOU MATT SMITH!

12- Sherlock. And you know why.

13- Steven Moffat. DISHONOUR ON YOU, DISHONOUR ON YOUR COW.

14- BBC in general. 

15- James Bond, for not going gay. 

16- Disney.

17- Happy singing people.

18- Cheerfulness.

19- 500 Miles, by The Proclaimers. AND YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHY.

20- Mathematics.

21- Depression.

22- Anxiety.

23- Cutting. You do not help. In the slightest. I know that now.

24- Sickness. Seriously, my brain’s already out of whack, this is not an invitation to have fun too, immune system. 

25- Game of Thrones. I knew about the Red Wedding, BUT THAT DOES NOT MAKE IT OKAY. 

Argh…There’s so many more things I want to say fuck you to…tell you what, I’ll continue this again when Internet has returned.

Cat Madigan

Letters On My Arm

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“Cat!”

I leap out of my head. “How long?” I pant.

Daniel shakes his head. “I’m not sure, I only just-”

“Where are they?” I look around, and I speak quickly. “I had a knife, they were coming at me, I, I think I got one…”

Daniel’s gone quiet. “Where is he?”

I point across from us. There’s a big heap of black on the ground, almost like slime. The knife is lying on top of it, black and red on it both. I can remember now; after I ran him through with the blade, the others got behind me. The knife was in him, I was too slow to take it out in time.

“What do you remember from Delirium?” Daniel asks.

I shake my head. “It’s a blur,” I say. “Which means nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened in Delirium,” Daniel says slowly. “But in Reality…” He shows me my bedroom. It’s a mess as usual, but if you look closely, you can see things. Things that were on my bed are now spilled over the floor. Shoes are in random places, no two matching shoes are together.

I open the window, and the mass of black is sucked out. Daniel and I watch it float away, into the world of Reality. After a while, he speaks to me. “Your hand…”

I look at them, and I see it; the red smudge on it, originating from one thin line across my finger. “How did-”

Then I remember again. A knife, no a sword, slashes at me, cutting my hand as I hold it out, as feeble protection. “How did it only get one finger?” I whisper. It’s one singular cut, two centimetres long at most. “Are they gone Daniel?”

He nods. He’s unusually silent, and I’m beginning to panic and wonder what on earth he’s thinking when I see the red marks on my arm.

F R E A K.

“No…”

“Cat…” Daniel warns.

“No!” I crumple. “I didn’t…I didn’t…”

“Listen Cat listen-”

“I promised!” I’m in tears. “I can’t…”

“Cat, they’re not cuts!”

“What?”

He holds my arm in front of me, and I flinch away. “Look Cat,” he whispers.

Reluctantly, I turn my head back. The letters are angry red, but they aren’t dripping. “Scratches, not cuts,” he says soothingly. “It’s not that bad.”

I give him a look. “I know,” he says, “it’s bad, but scratches fade, scratches don’t leave scars. You didn’t self harm.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Scratches don’t count.”

“What about beating yourself with a bar?” I retort. “That doesn’t scar either.”

His eyes are full of sorrow. They’re grey today, because my room is blue. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “You need rest.”

I lie down, and he sits next to me. “You could be doing this,” I say quietly. “You could’ve sent those things on me, and I wouldn’t know.”

He takes off his jacket and shows me his own arm. A gash is on his left index finger, bleeding softly. And lower, F R E A and K are on his arm as bright as blood.

“How many scars of mine do you have?” I whisper.

He shows me his leg, with lines running down it. He shows me the lash marks on my arms, from long ago. “There’s even older ones,” he tells me. “D’you want to go there?”

I shake my head. Mummy, I’m bleeding! Mummy, I’m bleeding! “Stop.”