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How many times do you think someone can die before they get sick of it? Turns out, a lot of times. Definitely because there’s a million ways to die. And when you’ve got weird friends who don’t listen to your boundaries, you’ll find out what all of them are rather quickly. And its fun for a bit. But then… it got… boring. And then you tell your friends you’re done with it. And they decide you’re wrong. And you need to be told why they’re right, shown it. And then your best friend changed, and your other friends show their true colors, and then you’re stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere and your parents don’t care where you are and you dying over and over again. Until…
Their done with you, because they went through the whole list they made about ways to die and can’t think of any more. And they just leave you. Out there. All alone. Without food of water or a way of getting out.
Leaving you to starve over and over and over again, until the dehydration gets to you first.
Leaving you to try to get out for hours, days, weeks maybe? You don’t know. You’ve never been good with time. You think they know that. Maybe that makes it worse. It probably should. It probably does, though you don’t realize in that moment.
You let go, eventually. You let the pain and the hurt and the empty stomach happen to you. Over and over and over and over…
Then someone finds you. Or, you think so. But your free to see light again. And then you die the moment you do, because the savior came at a bad time. And you wake up alone. Sand being thrown on top of you. You sit up quickly. The person screams and runs of. You’re alone again. The person left food behind. And water. You’re not starving anymore, not dying of dehydration. Not missing the sun. Actually you hate the sun in that moment. Because they took you very far away, and you don’t have a quick way to get away from where you were kept, almost buried, and left behind. You don’t die anymore on your way to the nearest town, but you wish you did. Maybe. Only slightly. Because it hurts. Walking, the sun, everything. But you keep going, because you need to leave that place, you need to find other people to help you. Only, you don’t know if there are people like that anymore. Because the ones you trusted to help you, hurt you. Badly. And you’ll never get over that. Probably. You think you won’t. And don’t worry, you don’t.
You find a town, a city. It’s far, or close. You don’t know. You have no idea. Then you see a newspaper lying around on the ground. You don’t know the date. You think you remember the date it was when your friends asked you to test something with them somewhere. You look at the date on the newspaper. You try to remember how months work. How years work. And when you do, you wish you didn’t. you wish you never saw the newspaper, never followed you friends to their cars, never trusted them enough to be your friends in the first place.
But you did. And you have to deal with it now. By knowing it either took you 2 years and 3 months and 2 weeks and 3 days to get away from the place they took you, or they spent years killing you. Over and over and over and over and over…