I’ve created another short story, I have another one up from a while ago if you’re interested.

She stands there, the darkness stains her skin, turning it form it’s normal tan color to that of the darkest night. It runs over her skin like droplets of blood. It misses every scar, every last cut on her skin. It terrifies her, this darkness, but that terror is intoxicating, as intoxicating as that first bottle of whiskey she choked down. As intoxicating as her first pill, as her slow fall into this hell. The woman never meant to let this happen, she swore that she was too strong for this to take here down. She was strong goddammit, and she was normal, she had no right to ***** and moan about the pain she feels each night before she falls asleep. She has no right to find comfort in the kiss of the razor. That’s what they tell her, when she begs for somebody to save her. That she has no right; look at all she has. A loving family, a place to call home, all the friends she could ever think to ask for, but why wasn’t she content? Why couldn’t she just say that she’s happy. For the first time why can’t she say she’s totally happy? When she has everything all of her “friends” claim to hunger for. When not one among them could claim to know what she’s going through. She’s all alone now, and she let’s the darkness drench her, covering her like a shroud.

Author’s note: I’m sorry this is really short, and please don’t fault me for any minor grammatical errors. Thanks for reading everybody