Inside Leslie

You know like her brain and stuff. What did you think I meant? Pervert.

Small disclaimer: THIS IS NOT A PERSONAL EXPERIENCE! THIS IS FICTIONAL! LESLIE IS AN EXTREMELY MESSED UP CHARACTER! SHE CAN GET THROUGH THIS! YOU JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE IN HER! IF YOU DON’T SHE WILL KNOW! IF YOU DON’T TELL THREE PEOPLE TO CUT A HOLE IN ONE OUT OF EVERY THREE SOCKS SHE WON’T PULL OUT OF THIS! SHE WILL HAUNT YOU WHILE SHE IS STILL ALIVE! THIS IS JUST TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE I WROTE MORE THAN I DID WHILE IN REALITY I SPENT MY WRITING TIME TALKING TO MYSELF WHILE I FILMED MYSELF WRITING SO I COULD…I DON’T KNOW WHY I DID THAT! I JUST DID! YOU CAN’T JUDGE ME!

                Leslie is sitting on a sink in her bathroom. Her fist is clenched around something small. She is crying. Who would ever understand? This was something that no one would understand. Not Dick, not Jim, not David, not Donald, and not Renée.

                There was something in her. Something that needed to come out. Something that needed to be free. But if that came out of her, would she survive? Would she be able to handle that? Where was this coming from? How could this be her? No one was really like this. No one actually felt this way, correct? There had to be something wrong. No one could know. She didn’t even know. There had to be something worth thinking about other than the ever-present self-doubt.

                She lowered her fist to her exposed right arm. The mirror reflects a shine of something jutting out the corner of her hand. Biting her lip, she brought it across her soft flesh. A crimson line appeared rapidly and diagonally across her forearm from the inside of her elbow to the middle of her inner-muscle. (I will look up that muscle later if this ever becomes a sitcom like I plan for it to MWAHAHAHA). She looked down at the streak; she saw the crimson liquid flowing out. In that liquid she saw the darkness in her mind flowing out of her. In the pain she felt the fear subsiding and escaping, but as the blood clotted, she knew parts of it were trapped inside her. She would just keep going until she was cleansed.

She closed her eyes, and felt the pain and confusion ebb from her open wound. This was working. Tomorrow was another day. Another day to live, another day to be with them, another day to work with the world, another day to cleanse.

                There was a jangle as the doorknob turned. Jim walked into the bathroom to see Leslie quickly pulling her right arm out of sight. He knew instantly what had happened. He had been in her situation before. “Give it to me,” he said.

                “Give you what?”

                “The blade, I can see your arm.”

                “I don’t want to.”

                “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

                “You don’t have to watch.”

                “Leslie, please.”

                “For the last time, no. This is has nothing to do with you. Just leave me be.”

                “I don’t want you to do this.”

                “You don’t know what I go through.”

                “Maybe I would if you would tell me.”

                Leslie slid off the sink, the blood had dripped down her arm and stopped at her wrist, forming bulbous red bubbles at the end of matching lines. She wouldn’t move toward him or away from him. She merely stood there, still. He moved toward her, but she remained still. He put his arms around her, but she remained still. He said, “I love you Leslie.” She remained still. “I don’t want you to be hurt. Talk to me.”

                “Get the fuck out of my way.” Leslie pushed out of him embrace and past him to the door. “And get out of my house.”