WARNING: Might contain triggers for cutting and depression.

You used to draw. You used to relish the feeling of paper rubbing against your palm. You used to love the way your lines and dots and squiggles became a figure in the end. Drawing was your passion. It was your passion before crimson waves burned it all out. Your beloved paper was reduced to ashes. Your pens and pencils were melted down to puddles of plastic. Your idol was ruined, burned and charred and cooked. She used to believe in happy endings and drawing and love.

So did you.

Once upon a time.

But that was a long time ago.

And you always did need to live in the present.

Years later, you take up drawing again. Only this time, your fingers guide a razor through your red ink on a pale canvas. Now, your pieces literally breathe. They spill red rain like you spill red rain. Nobody notices; nobody cares. She's gone and so are fairy tales and pleasure and adoration. The past is the past; you should have kept it that way. You blink slowly at the mirror. A face you don't recognize blinks back at you. Dead grey eyes. Shaggy too-long black hair. Creamy white skin. Like the dead you wish you could be. You sigh and look away. The walls are white; the floor is gray. There's banging at the door. You know who it is; it's them- the pretenders.

The pretenders are just like you- well, they should be like you. Instead, they smile and laugh and fake it til they make it. They're orphans too. They lost everything too. They refuse to face reality. They live on princes and princesses and affection and holy water. Renée Blue and Michael Johnson are each other's savior. It is so so sickening. Beck Cleary doesn't belong on that list with them- not really. She doesn't put up a façade. She doesn't pretend there is no such thing as suffering and pain and cruelty. Beck is the truth however twisted it might be. You can't help but admire her.

"Be there in a minute." you say blandly. The evidence is wiped away with a black towel and wrap gauze up your arms. The pretenders think it's a fashion statement, but Beck knows it's a cover. You gave up being disgusted a long time ago, but you've always needed a lie to hide yourself in. You stare at her as you leave the bathroom. She stares back but with an emotion you don't recognize. You think it's concern but you're not sure. "I found a new trail we can follow... so do ya wanna run it?" You don't mention that you've probably ran there before. Instead, you only nod. "Just let me change first." You disappear and reappear a moment later in a black shirt and basketball shorts.

Renée and Beck leave to do something else. You don't mind; running has never been their thing. Michael is a lot quieter without his girlfriend around anyway. He's a little more real than too. Together, you're running and mid-way, you meet a cliff. It's so beautiful- so very pretty. It's a steep drop, and Michael shies further and further away from it as you venture closer and closer. You get on your knees and lean forward. "Come on. We've gotta go." he says. You slowly stand up and step back. The scene has your fingers itching for a Sharpie like they haven't in six years. You know what that means.

You try to quell that want with blood on the blade and blood on the tile floor. Red rain used to fix everything, but nothing can last forever. You cut deeper, faster, harder. You try rubbing your wrist against scratchy cotton. None of it helps; you still want to turn lines into something. This is aggravating; this is annoying. All you want is peace. The stains won't come out of your shirt, so you burn it. Pyromania helps a bit with your anger, but it hurts far more than it helps. You don't mind; you've always been a bit of a masochist.

Rain has always been a favorite of yours. Rain makes everyone look as dead as you, and rain kills the fire. Rain washes away the blood, the ink, the yearning, and the need if only for a while. Rain is the true holy water. Rain cleanses you of the lust for pain and sin. It is your favorite thing in the world; it used to be hers. You ignore that just as you ignore the pitying looks and the morbid curiosity in their eyes. You're too busy enjoying the feeling of clean, so you jog. In the rain, the focus isn't how much your muscles burn, it's how much you love running.

Mid-run the rain stops and your cure is gone. You blink stupidly like you do almost everyday looking in the mirror before glancing at the edge. It's so so beautiful- so very pretty. You remember subconsciously carving it across your veins. You remember grazing the blade over your heart without really thinking about it. You remember watching your ink drip-drip-dripping down to the floor. You think of Renée and Michael, who have no idea of you are. You think of Beck, who knows who you were and how you changed.

You used to love to draw.

And happy ending and falling in love.

You used to be like your sister.

And like her, you're gone now.