Its funny. I'm gifted with an amazing ability to heal...
But I can't even heal myself. Physically or...Emotionally, I guess.
I know what you're thinking. Huh?? Well...Its kind of like this...
I've had this ability to heal others and sense pain (emotional or physical), but that pain and wound whatever it may be has to go somewhere. It can't vanish into thin air. No, life's not like that.
Not at all.
No, instead of it vanishing it transfers to me.
Yup. I'm the vessel for that wound. It goes to me.
At first, I hated it. But now, I guess I'm accustomed to it. I now have a higher pain tolerance, save a few scars.
Thing is, I always have to be careful who I touch. I can control my powers, so its easy if I touched someone with a life-threatening disease I wouldn't get it.
Plus, I can't go acting like the Savior when I'm not in battle or something like that. The media would be all over me and scientists would want me to experiment on...Ew. Or, I could be burned or something. You know how it is.
Anywho, back to what I'm actually writing about here.
I have good friends, a roof over my head, and I can eat without thinking of how I'm going to get my next meal. I shouldn't feel like this.
What exactly is 'this'?
Well...I think it all stems from the fact that I don't have my real parents. No, its not that I'm adopted per se, its more the fact that my parents both...Well, my mom died while giving birth to me, so I'm not exactly sad (as horrible as that seems) that she died. My dad...Well, he died when I was about 13. I'm 16 now. So...Three years? Yeah, thats about it. Three years of feeling like this.
He shot himself.
...I can't help thinking that its my fault. I can't help thinking I could've saved him. I could've helped him. Healed him. But...I was in too much of shock. I wasn't there when he did it, but I came home to him. He was clutching his chest, this...Creepy and blank stare with this even creepier smile on his face...He was taking this last breaths just as I came in.
"Cheryl..." He thought I was his wife. My mother. I remembered answering him with a choked out, 'I'm home.' And he smiled even more.
"I know." He answered.
I was strangely calm about it. Not once did I cry when the police and ambulance came, when the police questioned me and others, when I was sent to my Aunt Liz and Uncle Ray to live with, not at the funeral, not at the crisis counseling center (they deemed me as a recoveree or some crap like that.)....
It was like my body refused to cry. I even tried once.
Was I heartless? Was it...My powers?
I don't know. I still don't. But...I think instead of crying, the sadness has just become this...This lead weight in my heart. I feel like....Nothing.
They say I am tough.
They say I am strong.
I say they're wrong.
In actuality, I'm weak. When my friends and I are in combat, I have to stand back and let them fight. I can't use my powers unless someone is hurt. And even then, they're so hesitant to let me heal their injuries.
I know I'm frail. Small and bony. I think I got that from my mother, really.
But I do it anyway. I really never cared if I died since the incident with my father's death. I know, it sounds horrible. Death seems...Welcoming at times.
But I have a job to do.
And so I live on.
I wear this mask of this happy-go-lucky girl, funny and collected and all that jazz.
And when I take it off when no one's around...I'm completely different.
My 'shield'-if you would call it that; goes down, and I become this...Hollow being. I think dark things. I become this shell of a being.
I become a pathetic and frail being, a ghost of a girl. And then I do it.
I scratch. I scratch deeply into my skin with my long nails. I rake. I rip. I dig.
I eventually stop when the bleeding becomes too much. I can't loose too much blood, I'm pale enough as it is. But no one ever questions my scars. I always wore baggy things, never was one for fashion. So its not like everyone starts assuming I'm a cutter.
Plus, if I'm around friends and I do happen to wear a t-shirt or something, they automatically think its from all the wounds I take up during battle.
Its easy, really.
But even when I'm done tearing away at myself, I realize that I can't heal myself. I've tried. It dissipates for a second, but then comes back with the same force of pain.
Like I said, I'm a vessel for pain. I have also recently noticed I can sense some emotional pain as well. I've thought that maybe thats the reason I feel like this. Why I'm doing this to myself, but then I realize...
The emotional pain I feel from others goes away once I leave them and the area they're in.
This pain I feel stays. It stays, and it has no intention of leaving. It tells me bad things about myself that I already know. And I try not to think about.
'You could've saved your father. You practically killed him.'
'You killed your mother.'
'You're weak. Worthless, even. You can't do jack squat.'
'Nobody really cares. They tolerate you.'
'You're heartless. You can't even cry when something happens bad.'
'You're terribly ugly, you know. Bony, not at all curvy. Weird poop brown hair and eyes...And lets not forget your freckles. And ghostly pale skin. You're not doing yourself any favors by wearing atrocious clothes either.'
'You're going to end up alone. Face it.'
'There's a reason why people make fun of you. You're weird.'
'You can't even fight! All you can do is watch your friends fight and you just cheer or pathetically beat up the enemy. Didn't I already say you were pathetic? Well, I'll say it again. You're a pathetic, useless, ugly, heartless, worthless killer.'
And when those thoughts come in, I hide my feelings in front of others and punish myself later.
I do deserve it, really. I could've saved my father, as I've said before. I killed my mother when she gave birth to me. I ruined my aunt and uncle's life. I remember them always bragging about how great their life was without kids when they visited my father and me. And now they have me.
I don't deserve to live. I really don't.
I'm utterly serious. I'm not like those damn whiny teenagers who want attention.
Far from it.
I'm a waste of a human. And one day, when I feel that I'm not needed anymore, when my battle days are over I'll do something about that. I'll annihilate myself.
So I guess the reason why I'm writing this is because I'm planning just that. And to whoever finds this will know why I did it.
Whoever does find this, don't stop me. I love my friends and family, and I'm doing them a favor. And I thank you for listening, whoever gets this. Even if you can't understand whats written and told on this piece of loose leaf paper.
So thanks for listening, and good luck in your travels in wherever life may take you.
~The walking first aid kit
.....
Noelle smiled faintly, sealing up the letter in an envelope. She wrote on the front, 'to whoever' and quickly grabbed the bottle sitting on the jetty rocks. The sea air tickled her nose as she proceeded to roll up the envelope, and put it in the bottle. She jammed in the cork to the bottle as hard as she could, without breaking the bottle itself. She then walked on the very tip of a rather large rock, and wound back her right arm. She threw her best, the bottle soaring through the air and landing very far away with a splash. She watched as the waves of the sea swallowed it up, consuming every confession and thought poured onto that flimsy piece of paper.
"Noelle, what're you doing?? Its time to go home!" Aunt Liz called from their car, perched at the edge of the beach in the parking lot. They had spent a day at the beach, Noelle and her aunt and uncle. And when she asked if she could use her uncle and aunt's empty wine bottle from lunch for ''writing a letter to the other side of the world'' they really didn't question it. They were used to Noelle's odd-ball nature, thinking nothing of the request.
After all, she was just being Noelle.
(Ok, I don't know much about Noelle's character only that she was a character that slightly represented me in Lauren's big story. You see, I wasn't really planning on writing anything about her story until she wrote this awesome angst story about her character, Wren...And we do love writing angst. ((We're weird. Yes. But we love it.)) So I told her I'd write my own angst about my own character. But...I don't entirely know alot about my character, only that she has healing powers that make her take in the pain of wounds and crap like that. Not much else. sweatdrop Oh well. And guys, don't worry. In no way does this reflect how I feel. I'm not going to kill myself. Although I do admit, I think some of the things she does...Anywho, I hope I didn't mess up my character too much, Laur. Consider this your first fanfiction. biggrin Hope you enjoyed it!...But now I want to have a picnic on the beach...And no, her aunt and uncle aren't drunkards. They just drink wine on occasion.)
But I can't even heal myself. Physically or...Emotionally, I guess.
I know what you're thinking. Huh?? Well...Its kind of like this...
I've had this ability to heal others and sense pain (emotional or physical), but that pain and wound whatever it may be has to go somewhere. It can't vanish into thin air. No, life's not like that.
Not at all.
No, instead of it vanishing it transfers to me.
Yup. I'm the vessel for that wound. It goes to me.
At first, I hated it. But now, I guess I'm accustomed to it. I now have a higher pain tolerance, save a few scars.
Thing is, I always have to be careful who I touch. I can control my powers, so its easy if I touched someone with a life-threatening disease I wouldn't get it.
Plus, I can't go acting like the Savior when I'm not in battle or something like that. The media would be all over me and scientists would want me to experiment on...Ew. Or, I could be burned or something. You know how it is.
Anywho, back to what I'm actually writing about here.
I have good friends, a roof over my head, and I can eat without thinking of how I'm going to get my next meal. I shouldn't feel like this.
What exactly is 'this'?
Well...I think it all stems from the fact that I don't have my real parents. No, its not that I'm adopted per se, its more the fact that my parents both...Well, my mom died while giving birth to me, so I'm not exactly sad (as horrible as that seems) that she died. My dad...Well, he died when I was about 13. I'm 16 now. So...Three years? Yeah, thats about it. Three years of feeling like this.
He shot himself.
...I can't help thinking that its my fault. I can't help thinking I could've saved him. I could've helped him. Healed him. But...I was in too much of shock. I wasn't there when he did it, but I came home to him. He was clutching his chest, this...Creepy and blank stare with this even creepier smile on his face...He was taking this last breaths just as I came in.
"Cheryl..." He thought I was his wife. My mother. I remembered answering him with a choked out, 'I'm home.' And he smiled even more.
"I know." He answered.
I was strangely calm about it. Not once did I cry when the police and ambulance came, when the police questioned me and others, when I was sent to my Aunt Liz and Uncle Ray to live with, not at the funeral, not at the crisis counseling center (they deemed me as a recoveree or some crap like that.)....
It was like my body refused to cry. I even tried once.
Was I heartless? Was it...My powers?
I don't know. I still don't. But...I think instead of crying, the sadness has just become this...This lead weight in my heart. I feel like....Nothing.
They say I am tough.
They say I am strong.
I say they're wrong.
In actuality, I'm weak. When my friends and I are in combat, I have to stand back and let them fight. I can't use my powers unless someone is hurt. And even then, they're so hesitant to let me heal their injuries.
I know I'm frail. Small and bony. I think I got that from my mother, really.
But I do it anyway. I really never cared if I died since the incident with my father's death. I know, it sounds horrible. Death seems...Welcoming at times.
But I have a job to do.
And so I live on.
I wear this mask of this happy-go-lucky girl, funny and collected and all that jazz.
And when I take it off when no one's around...I'm completely different.
My 'shield'-if you would call it that; goes down, and I become this...Hollow being. I think dark things. I become this shell of a being.
I become a pathetic and frail being, a ghost of a girl. And then I do it.
I scratch. I scratch deeply into my skin with my long nails. I rake. I rip. I dig.
I eventually stop when the bleeding becomes too much. I can't loose too much blood, I'm pale enough as it is. But no one ever questions my scars. I always wore baggy things, never was one for fashion. So its not like everyone starts assuming I'm a cutter.
Plus, if I'm around friends and I do happen to wear a t-shirt or something, they automatically think its from all the wounds I take up during battle.
Its easy, really.
But even when I'm done tearing away at myself, I realize that I can't heal myself. I've tried. It dissipates for a second, but then comes back with the same force of pain.
Like I said, I'm a vessel for pain. I have also recently noticed I can sense some emotional pain as well. I've thought that maybe thats the reason I feel like this. Why I'm doing this to myself, but then I realize...
The emotional pain I feel from others goes away once I leave them and the area they're in.
This pain I feel stays. It stays, and it has no intention of leaving. It tells me bad things about myself that I already know. And I try not to think about.
'You could've saved your father. You practically killed him.'
'You killed your mother.'
'You're weak. Worthless, even. You can't do jack squat.'
'Nobody really cares. They tolerate you.'
'You're heartless. You can't even cry when something happens bad.'
'You're terribly ugly, you know. Bony, not at all curvy. Weird poop brown hair and eyes...And lets not forget your freckles. And ghostly pale skin. You're not doing yourself any favors by wearing atrocious clothes either.'
'You're going to end up alone. Face it.'
'There's a reason why people make fun of you. You're weird.'
'You can't even fight! All you can do is watch your friends fight and you just cheer or pathetically beat up the enemy. Didn't I already say you were pathetic? Well, I'll say it again. You're a pathetic, useless, ugly, heartless, worthless killer.'
And when those thoughts come in, I hide my feelings in front of others and punish myself later.
I do deserve it, really. I could've saved my father, as I've said before. I killed my mother when she gave birth to me. I ruined my aunt and uncle's life. I remember them always bragging about how great their life was without kids when they visited my father and me. And now they have me.
I don't deserve to live. I really don't.
I'm utterly serious. I'm not like those damn whiny teenagers who want attention.
Far from it.
I'm a waste of a human. And one day, when I feel that I'm not needed anymore, when my battle days are over I'll do something about that. I'll annihilate myself.
So I guess the reason why I'm writing this is because I'm planning just that. And to whoever finds this will know why I did it.
Whoever does find this, don't stop me. I love my friends and family, and I'm doing them a favor. And I thank you for listening, whoever gets this. Even if you can't understand whats written and told on this piece of loose leaf paper.
So thanks for listening, and good luck in your travels in wherever life may take you.
~The walking first aid kit
.....
Noelle smiled faintly, sealing up the letter in an envelope. She wrote on the front, 'to whoever' and quickly grabbed the bottle sitting on the jetty rocks. The sea air tickled her nose as she proceeded to roll up the envelope, and put it in the bottle. She jammed in the cork to the bottle as hard as she could, without breaking the bottle itself. She then walked on the very tip of a rather large rock, and wound back her right arm. She threw her best, the bottle soaring through the air and landing very far away with a splash. She watched as the waves of the sea swallowed it up, consuming every confession and thought poured onto that flimsy piece of paper.
"Noelle, what're you doing?? Its time to go home!" Aunt Liz called from their car, perched at the edge of the beach in the parking lot. They had spent a day at the beach, Noelle and her aunt and uncle. And when she asked if she could use her uncle and aunt's empty wine bottle from lunch for ''writing a letter to the other side of the world'' they really didn't question it. They were used to Noelle's odd-ball nature, thinking nothing of the request.
After all, she was just being Noelle.
(Ok, I don't know much about Noelle's character only that she was a character that slightly represented me in Lauren's big story. You see, I wasn't really planning on writing anything about her story until she wrote this awesome angst story about her character, Wren...And we do love writing angst. ((We're weird. Yes. But we love it.)) So I told her I'd write my own angst about my own character. But...I don't entirely know alot about my character, only that she has healing powers that make her take in the pain of wounds and crap like that. Not much else. sweatdrop Oh well. And guys, don't worry. In no way does this reflect how I feel. I'm not going to kill myself. Although I do admit, I think some of the things she does...Anywho, I hope I didn't mess up my character too much, Laur. Consider this your first fanfiction. biggrin Hope you enjoyed it!...But now I want to have a picnic on the beach...And no, her aunt and uncle aren't drunkards. They just drink wine on occasion.)
Community Member
I LOVE IT!
There a few techincalities I haven't told you, but I wouldn't want them posted online. About how everyone gets their powers and stuffs.
^u^
I feel honored.
If there's anything you want me to do with your character in the books, feel free to PM me with suggestions. Teehee, I'm all excited to write now. Sorta... 'cept I've got the writer's block. crying