There once was a girl who had forgotten how to smile. Once in her life she was able to grin unabashedly but someone stole that gift away from her, and ever sense the two met, the smiles became more and more unattainable. Things she used to enjoy whole heartedly were torment, and her friends and family could not long hear her loud, boisterous laugh. She had forgotten how, but she remembered how to pretend.
Is this smile believable? She would often find herself asking. Should I be laughing? Do I look disinterested? Because she had forgotten how to smile and how to laugh on time, she laughed more than even before. She never knew when the fake grin she was able to muster was needed.
Feelings were hard to come by; she only felt exhaustion after days of acting. She had another feeling too, a yearning would be a better term. She yearned for the feelings she used to full of, she yearned for her ability to forgive and forget.
One day, the girl looked into the mirror and did not see herself, only an empty shell that her soul was supposed to be part of. She realized she no longer had her own thoughts, just the thoughts of that person. That person’s voice echoed in her ears its torments, its vexes that had accumulated over time. She burned and cried internally through the voices and she couldn’t think of a way to make it go away.
Her hands clenched, nails digging into her skin and slowly the voices stopped as the pain of her nails digging deeper and deeper into her palms. The girl realized another thing that day. She had a third feeling that she hadn’t noticed before, and this feeling came as a blessing. The feeling of pain helped drown out the screams only she could hear.
So whenever she heard that voice sneaking back into her head she would let her fingers scratch her skin raw until both her skin and her nails were blood coated. The scars accumulated and often people would ask what the problem was.
“I don’t know,” Was the most often used excuse. “I’m so clumsy.”
Sometimes the scars made designs. A smile forming on her leg or arm instead of on her lips.
A boy noticed the scars accumulating, he even saw the designs. He saw the lies she told so easily, he saw her struggles. Maybe I’ll talk to her. He would tell himself each day. Maybe I can help her. But every day he would talk himself out of trying to help. I’m just imagining it. I’m sure I’m not the only one who can help her.
But he was the only one who saw the little twitch of hers and not before long was it too late. One day the boy picked up a newspaper on the way to school and the headline read clearly Home Town Girl Hangs Herself. Right below that headline was the girl’s smiling face, a smile that had long sense been gone.