The wind was a strange, strange thing. It got stranger the more thought she put into it. It could be calming, as it enveloped her in its gentle warmth on a sunny day. And it could be terrifying, like a tornado that sped across the surface of the wheat fields that used to bring her comfort. And it could cut her, like a twisted, sharp yet ragged knife, though she didn’t need the wind for that.
She could do it on her own, though she had never really understood the people that cut their arms. Not to misunderstand, she had the fullest understanding of why they did it. What bothered her was that everyone seemed to choose their arms.
Arms aren’t convenient to cover up, always wearing long sleeves to hide from the gazes of the people that try oh-so-hard not to judge those who did self-harm yet did nothing to stop it. And when they did try to stop it, they’d tell the kids to go to therapy. Or better yet, to just get help. To talk to someone, to open up.
Oh, but no one should ever open up to those who tell them to do so. They don’t care. They think they do, but they don’t. They never did. Of course not, nobody wanted to be a vent to a teenage girl who’s going through whatever life had in store for her, whether she wanted to purchase from it or not. No, they’d tell her to talk to someone, but never them. Foolish to expect the perfect adults who don’t struggle with the problems of not being heard to hear them, that’s what she’d be. A fool, for not telling anyone. And a fool for telling people, the wrong people.
So the thighs were a much safer option. She could easily hide her thighs and call it decency. Of course, she never would never wear swimsuits and such, but at least she could wear a top like everyone else while she’d stand on the shore to watch them enjoy themselves in the ocean’s cold water. And she’d say she didn’t like how salty the water was, or that she couldn’t be bothered to change her clothes. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. But that was part of it all too, to not lie, but to share fragments of the truth. It made her feel better, if only just a little. And she’d take all the little things if it could make the mess that her life was even just a bit more enjoyable.
However, emphasis lay on the words ‘a bit’. Of course, people say that the little things were what made life worth living, but a million little things couldn’t stand against the sheer amount of pain that she had accumulated over all those years. They helped, they really did. But they only delayed the inevitable so much, they were whispers in her head saying everything was okay when she knew and felt that it wasn’t.
The wind was a strange, strange thing. It was oddly soothing as she breathed it in. The way it pulled on her hair, the way it tore at her clothes. It sang to her, or rather, whistled. Were they sounds of comfort? Or encouragement? She didn’t know, she couldn’t tell.
It had been a while since she had had such a view of the city she inhabited. It hadn’t been long since she had moved here, when she didn’t really have a choice. She had to move in with her father after the wind took everything from her on the countryside, her mother, and sister. But the city had started to grow on her, more and more. The unchanging streets and flashing neon lights were the only thing in her life that had some structure. And looking at it from above, recognising the few spots she considered familiar and viewing them from a new angle was definitely stunning.
The wind was a strange, strange thing. It was like a mattress, ever soft, tugging at her features, blowing her mouth up like a frog as she laughed and the lights flashed by her, theatrically colouring her hair. Had anyone taken a picture, it would have been sure to be pretty, in its own way. But she knew no one would. She was insignificant, after all. So she laughed. There were no tears. This was it, after all. There was no going back now, so why cry about it?
No one would ever know that she laughed. She fell head first, and it was quick. Ironically, it had been a relief. The twisted sense of freedom, the false feeling of flying. The dream of humanity, at the price of her life.
The wind was a strange, strange thing. Like the wind, she came, and went away. Like a tornado, people were shocked when they heard of her demise. When they heard of the streets painted red, the scent of iron and intestines in the air. But like a breeze, it came, and it went. Perhaps that was all she ever was. A cold breeze, freezing at times, yet refreshing, in a sense. Unpredictable, capable of creating something bigger if only it had hit the right warm currents. But she had never hit those currents. So she remained a breeze, short, fleeting, and insignificant.