“Do I even have a chance?”
She breathed those words silently as she has a thousand times before, unmistakably pronouncing every syllable like she wouldn’t have another, drowning in her thoughts.
She stares at something meaningless. A wall, a picture a child drew, a pan recently used. She stares, but the sight she has is fuzzy compared to what she thinks. She doesn’t think of easy exits or wrong solutions, something of her past taught her quite well that was unacceptable. She ponders, though, if she could stay alive inside her mind.
Little did she know that among herself, she had three voices. One, long since silenced, told her of paths of exile, paths that abruptly stop and never continue. She knows far too well these solutions end in direct hatred of herself and possible, probable scarring of both her mind and body. She does not listen to this voice.
Instead she contemplates which of the other two to follow.
The first of the two decides that the only way to survive is to murder the memories long forgotten, to start afresh each and every day. A cherished memory forgotten, the water of the Lethe drank. She does not want to forget every memory, but the thought brings back memories she would like to forget.
The last voice screams, because it is rather weak, to hold on and dream for a better tomorrow. She has followed this voice so long she has it’s words etched in her mind. But, lately it has faded, replaced with emptiness and regret. The other voices tend to drown this one out with whispers and suggestions. She hopes she can return to this voice before it disappears, because if time runs slim she may pass the point of no return. No hope, no dreams.
I do not know this girl. But if I ever meet her, I will tell her to trust her instincts, to await the return of the third voice, to replace her sadness with imaginative dreams, luscious pride, and self achievement. I will remind her that voices are only suggestions, and you should follow what she thinks is best. I will tell her to hold on.