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Emancipation
Legacy Name: Emancipation


The Reborn Sheeta
Owner: Rampage

Age: 7 years, 9 months, 4 weeks

Born: June 22nd, 2013

Adopted: 7 years, 9 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: July 8th, 2013

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Statistics


  • Level: 7
     
  • Strength: 17
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 13
     
  • HP: 13/13
     
  • Intelligence: 4
     
  • Books Read: 4
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Store Clerk


TRIGGER WARNING. NSFW.

She ran her fingertips across the scars on her wrist. The raised and puckered skin was cool to the touch, chilled by the autumn breeze that tickled the tips of her hair and chilled her face. The girl looked up and around, marveling at the brilliant red and orange leaves that painted the trees all around her. She took a deep breath and watched the fog dissipate from her mouth.

It was a strange thing, being out in the open again. She had spent the last six months of her life cooped up in a small, white room, imprisoned by both the asylum and her own thoughts, the demons that ran amuck in her head.

They said awful things, drove her to insanity, and even then they wouldn't let her go. The doctors called it Bipolar Disorder. She called it Hell.

It started when she was a teenager, fourteen to be exact. In reality she supposed it had always been there, but it hadn't started to plague her until she turned fourteen. Until the sleepless nights became unbearable. No matter what she did, no matter how many sleeping pills she took—and she took quite a few—she simply could NOT get her mind to shut off. All she wanted to do was go to sleep. Sweet, fleeting sleep.

The insomnia and racing thoughts weren't so bad. At least not until they started affecting her waking life. Her friends began to tell her that she was talking too fast; they almost couldn't understand her. She began to get angry then. She would fly into a rage at even the slightest provocation. Once, in math class, a boy had accidentally knocked her schoolbooks off her desk, and before anyone knew it, she had the boy pinned against the wall, her hand on his throat, squeezing the life out of him.

That was the first time she had been suspended. She tried to use her new free time constructively, to catch up on schoolwork and maybe try to force herself to get some sleep, but then one of her friends invited her to a party, a bonfire in the woods.

She wanted to get her mind off of everything, so she went. There was alcohol. Lots of alcohol. And boys, so many cute boys. It wasn't long before she was drunk off her ass, and—in a moment of mania-induced hyper-sexuality—let some of the boys lead her off into the woods. She lost her virginity that night, in the most unceremonious way. Lying naked on the cold, hard ground as the boys took turns with her. It wasn't until a few weeks later, when the mania and melted down into depression, that she started to remember the truth. She wasn't drunk. She had been drugged. And the boys didn't lead her into the woods. They dragged her there. They dragged her there and raped her and there was nothing she could do about it because she didn't even know their names.

That was the first time she'd ever thought about committing suicide. It would be simple, she thought. She would buy two or three bottles of painkillers, take them all, and go to sleep. An easy, painless death. It was those thoughts that brought her a macabre sort of comfort as she went through her days, listlessly and lifelessly going about her daily activities.

Slowly but surely, she climbed out of it. It wasn't a conscious effort by any means. She just felt better and better, a little more each day. She hadn't even noticed that she was feeling better. She just found herself fantasizing less and less about her death.

The next few episodes weren't as forgiving. Each and every one took her further and further into new and even more horrifying depths of debauchery. It got to the point where her friends began to abandon her, and the ones—well, one—who was still there was seriously beginning to worry for her safety.

Her suicidal thoughts began to give way to suicidal actions then. The first time she tried to kill herself, she did as she originally planned and took three bottles of Tylenol. Her body worked against her to save itself, though, as she quickly vomited all the pills back up and crawled back to bed for another sleepless night.

The second time, she tried to hang herself from the railing of the upstairs hallway. She had grabbed the tie from her housecoat and had managed to fashion a pretty sturdy noose, but when she tied it to the rail and jumped over, the fabric ripped loudly, sending her crashing down into the foyer and breaking her arm. Next time, she thought, she had to use something stronger. Like maybe an actual rope.

The third time she tried to commit suicide was the charm. The charm in that she finally got caught, anyway. She was having a particularly rough time, as her best—and only remaining—friend had begged her to get help, or else she would leave, too. But she was afraid. She didn't know what would happen if she sought the help she so desperately needed. The demons—mania, anxiety, and depression—had filled her head with so many absurd thoughts that she couldn't possibly bring herself to go through with it.

And so it was that she stole a scalpel from the biology lab and headed to the girls' bathroom. She locked herself in the handicapped stall at the far edge of the bathroom, the one that came fully equipped with a mirror and a sink. She walked over and turned the faucet, splashing cold water on her face. She used the sink to hold herself up as she looked in the mirror.

She barely recognized herself. The girl in front of her was only a shell of her former self, with dim, sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. Tears flooded her eyes then as she realized what she had to do. She had to end it. She had to.

She took the scalpel from her pocket and held it above her wrist, contemplating for a moment. Her lip began to tremble as she murmured a soft apology to her mother and her friend before pressing the blade into her flesh, digging it deep and dragging it through her forearm.

The pain was immediate, and the blood… the blood started to flow in a sickening red river down her hand and onto the floor. But it wasn't fast enough. She wanted to die, and she wanted to die NOW. She lifted the scalpel back up and thrust it back into her forearm, letting out a sharp cry as she struck what she was surely a nerve. She began to gouge out the muscle then, angrily mutilating her arm in a desperate attempt to end her pain.

Her vision began to blur as the puddle of blood grew larger and larger and began to seep out of her stall into the open area of the bathroom. It was at that moment that her friend, her lone friend, had decided to take a quick bathroom break. The girl's friend noticed the blood on the floor and let out a shriek as she stood there with her hands over her mouth, horrified.

She looked under the door and recognized her friend's shoes and book bag, and before either girl knew it, she had frantically crawled under the door and wrestled the scalpel away. She threw it out of the stall and immediately grabbed her phone, frantically calling for an ambulance.

The girl looked down at her friend, tears flooding her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. How could she do this? How could she leave her friend and family like this? Didn't she see that a life without her was unbearable? She couldn't voice these thoughts out loud, however. She had to stay strong for her friend.

The paramedics arrived within minutes and kicked the stall open. They seized the girl from her friend's arms and put her on a stretcher before wheeling her into the back of the ambulance and whisking her away. The girl's friend simply stood there, covered in her best friend's blood, her hands shaking…

It was several weeks before the girl was allowed any visitors in the asylum, and she was pleasantly surprised to count her friend among them. The visit was wordless; the only sound that seeped through was that of their sobs as they hugged each other and cried.

But that was only the first visit. The girl's friend came to see her every Friday night like clockwork. They would watch movies, read books, paint pictures, normal things. The girl was convinced that it was this, and not the medicine or the therapy, that healed her.

After a few weeks, the girl was cleared to go home. She didn't believe it at first until she was asked to sign her discharge papers. She packed her belongings—the clothes on her back, the paintings she and her friend and made, and a couple of books—and prepared to walk out and face the world again.

She slung her book bag over her shoulder and walked outside. She ran her fingertips across the scars on her wrist. The raised and puckered skin was cool to the touch, chilled by the autumn breeze that tickled the tips of her hair and chilled her face. The girl looked around, marveling at the brilliant red and orange leaves that painted the trees all around her. She took a deep breath and watched the fog dissipate from her mouth.

She looked up and out towards the gates of the facility. There, waiting for her right behind the wrought metal iron, was her best and only friend.

She smiled to herself as she realized that she was finally free, that she had emancipated herself from her demons. She ran to her friend.



Story by Rampage.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1 (800) 273-8255 or go to suicidepreventionlifeline.org today.
For more information on Bipolar Disorder (also known as Manic Depression), visit The National Institute of Mental Health's articles on the condition.

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