by Vic Pires
Up, up, up.
The clunking metal stairs moved forwards one by one. I waited at the bottom of the escalator as people pushed past me, stilettoed boots and frayed jeans waiting on those stairs as they climbed their way through the mall. That was me one day, one day not so long ago.
Now I stood, unable to move forward, unable to go back. The scars on the skin that covered my tiny frame bore witness to the pain I felt.
The noise was deafening. Happiness hung like a thick fog in the air, its sickly sweetness choking me. Didn't these people realise that this world was not a happy place, that sadness ran like rivers rushing into waterfalls, the strength of their innocent white waters dragging me down.
It was too much. I couldn't ascend that escalator and so I turned to walk away, my legs carrying me as my mind locked itself away. I passed the shoppers, mothers with their babies on their weekday morning outings. My body barged past them as it ran to hide amongst the musty smells of the windowless bathroom, locked behind the plastic door inscribed with teenaged love notes.
The blade of the knife was cold as it slid across my skin, the red colour of its hilt not quite red enough to match the colour of the blood that seeped from my veins. And I floated, up, up, up.