HelaineL

"I'm fine" is a dirty lie. The truth is that I want to die. "I'm tired" is not even done. It really means "I'm tired of being no one" "I'm better" is but a curse. The truth is that I've never been worse "I'm just cold" is what I say so my sleeves can hide my scars away. "I already ate" is said with a frown. I starve to see the numbers on the scale go down. "I'm okay" is probably the worst. It really means I'm about to burst. All these things are lies to me. But you take this as the truth because what else would I be?

Look over your shoulder. They're watching you. Tighten your stomach muscles. Bounce your leg up and down. Faster. Faster. "Are you okay?" No. "I'm fine." Shut up. Don't say anything. Feel it, feel the thoughts melting from your mind. Freeze. Stare. Laugh. "What are you doing?" Dying. "Nothing." They're behind you. Kill them before they kill you. "What's wrong?" Please save me. "Nothing." Crazy. You're crazy. No one wants you. Pull the trigger. Do it. "Please tell me what's wrong." You wouldn't understand. "Nothing." Laugh. Smile. Scream. "Who are you? I don't know you anymore." I'm a nobody. I am Bipolar Disorder. ... "I don't know.

I stare at the screen, waiting for some burst of inspiration to rain upon me like a meteor shower sent straight from the gods of literature heaven. Nothing. A sigh escapes my lips, and I haphazardly bash random buttons of the keyboard, watching as the blank document before me is littered with an incoherent placement of characters. The monotone click-clack seems to just resonate with the narcoleptic beating of my heart, further fueling my senseless crusade. Where has all my writing gone? It feels like it was just sucked right out of my soul. Ideas constantly plague my mind, yet all I can do is write them down. When I go to type them out, n

Why am I here, what have I become? Why am I a whisper that carries no echo? Why am I a painting fading away by century? Why am I an instrument that no one bothers to play? Why am I a lifeboat cast away at sea? Why am I here, what have I become?

Tony woke first out of the three Avengers, all who had ended up sleeping on the floor, surrounded by cushions they had dragged in from various rooms shortly after Loki fell asleep. Thinking of their misunderstood martian God, Tony turned to the bed, eyes widening when he found it empty, completely devoid of life. Shit, shit, shit. He thought, turning about the room silently, determined not to wake his friends until he knew Loki was actually missing. He crept through the pillows to the other side of the room, heaving a sigh of relief when he saw light spilling out from beneath the bathroom door. That relief soon turned to concern as he heard

He stood before one of the large stone pillars at 1407 Greymalkin lane, reading the simple metal  sign partially covered by climbing vines, "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters". It was starting to sprinkle and he was footsore from walking. The driver of the semi that he had hitched a ride from in Bangor had dropped him at a rest area near the Salem Center exit off interstate 684. He had looked at the map enclosed behind a thick pane of plexiglass underneath a small roofed shelter, finding his current location marked by a small red arrow with the words "YOU ARE HERE" beside it, and he had found Salem Center a few miles distant.    He'd h

"Ha!" Marcus said, pushing the girl into the dirt, laughing. "Such a shameful being as yourself, Sa'hil, is unfit to stand near me." "What have I done to you?!" Sa'hil said, sitting up, her long black hair covered in brown dust. "You were born," Amalin, Marcus' accomplice said, giggling mirthlessly. No older than ten, and yet she was as cruel as a Chitauri; yet everything about her physical being seemed perfect. Wavy brown hair, high cheekbones, full pink lips, glittering brown eyes sprinkled with gold, and a tall, curvy frame, like a queen. Drawing attention to herself was easy, unlike Sa'hil, whose slight build and clever features, matc

Loki gazed at himself in the golden plate. 20 years had passed since he had tasted the throne, and since it had been ripped from his lips. Only 19 years had passed since he had almost become the king of the Earth, and given a throne in prison. Now he had to abdicate that throne and was still, and forever would be, a prince of Asgard. His hand felt so light and grounded without the electric scepter in it. When had he fallen so low? "Loki!" A friend, one of the peasant gods that he had once ruled over, skidded around the corner. He was out-of-breath, and couldn't seem to articulate his thoughts. "He's—he's—" Loki placed his hands o

I've been everywhere I've seen everything I don't want to see it again. Bad things happened. As they should, but you see these things didn't make me feel good. They were like thousands of knives, poking at my skin Wanting desperately to break in. I screamed I have taken him away, His life and heavenly soul. Would it matter If I didn't regret a thing? I'd be a murderer and a thief Since the day I was born Sprouting was the ground knotted and twisted My limbs creak with pain My heart beats with anger Of these things I've done Because darling, as you can see I am not real I never want to be I'd regret the moments that I