She watches her life fall apart in front of her. Her friends are there for her. They ask her if she is okay over and over again, and she nods and smiles and says she’s just tired. But on the inside she is different.

On the inside she is nothing but a dead, withering soul, living off of the false hope that everything’s going to be okay when she knows it never will be. The fire of energy and life that used to blaze within her has been unstoked and forgotten, and she lets it die. Lets it die because she doesn’t care. Lets it die because the embers within her have become useless lumps of charcoal, blackened and shriveled.

It hurts to hide it. Hide the pain that’s consuming her slowly. Her mind is beginning to cave in on itself and forces evil thoughts into her head and drags her down until she is feeling worthless. She is a rock in a sea of rubies, she tells herself. Dull and boring and nothing. She wants to die and fade away with the coming storm. She won’t be remembered, she tells herself over and over again as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She’s planned her death a million ways, each of them at her fingertips.

But she can’t. She hates herself for not being able to. It reminds her that she is such a worthless coward that she can’t even end her life. Her evil conscience jeers at her constantly, almost driving her crazy.

And yet she holds on.

Holds on to the false hope that maybe, just maybe...everything will be okay. She lives because something inside her values life more than death. It is small, but it is there, so she keeps on living.

She starts to crack under the burden of despair. The thoughts in her mind become more frequent and more vivid. She cries each night, lulled to unconsciousness by the sound of her own sobs and the taste of tears on her lips. She hides away from everyone, even those closest to her. She falls into such a routine that she is numb each day, any emotions gone from her face, her body, her mind. Her imagination, once full of creativity and mystical worlds, vanishes, and she is so serious that even her best friends stray away from her.

She is a beautiful disaster, a broken masterpiece.

She has every reason to die. Every reason to leave this world.

And yet she lives on.

She takes a sip from the devil’s cup, sighing in relief as her worries melt away like an ice cube in the hot sun. It burns her throat, and for a moment the fire within her lights again. She likes the feeling of not having to worry, and the deadly liquid sitting on the counter is her key to freedom. So she drinks again. And drinks until the bottle is empty.

She has changed. Her cheekbones poke through her skin, and she is nothing but bones and the alcohol in her bloodstream boils in her veins. She is almost happy, her world free of pain and sorrow. She is floating, in a way. Floating above reality and living in her own wild fantasy, a beautiful disaster.
She looks in the mirror one day, and sees herself. Sees her eyes, permanently glazed over yet sparkling with corybantic exuberance. Sees her body, nothing but a collection of bones poking out throughout her. A broken masterpiece.

Horrified, she rummages through the medicine cabinet. Something to relax her. She finds the bottle of pills and dry swallows them all, waiting for the pain to go away and the numbness to take her over again. But this time she has swallowed too much.

And the fire within her finally goes out.