A Poem by Yuri

Yuri’s head was aching. She felt as if her brain was going to explode from the tension. Everything went wrong today at the Literature Club. She couldn’t control herself that day, and ended up saying horrible, putrid things to a fellow member. As if she were nothing. It was almost like something, or someone, had a gripping effect on her mental state. 
A simple “I’m sorry” probably wouldn’t fix it. Neither would a gift. Think about it; no one would accept chocolates and roses from the person who wanted them nulled, unless they’re docile or submissive in nature. What would be the point? Yuri was having a hard time breathing from the incident. Just thinking about it made her heart pound out of her chest. Then, she sat and thought.
Maybe, writing a poem would help her move forward. A poem meant to scribe her anger. A poem of beauty and worth, while also tackling her harmful emotions. The paper was her therapist.
Yuri picked up her ballpoint pen and let the tip hover over her open journal for a moment. What would she even say? What if people found this piece of writing and took it as a diary of some sort? Then, she remembered. She felt competent enough at keeping a secret, unless she shared it with someone personal to her, like the new guy in the Literature Club. 
Oh, how she loved him, already. She didn’t know him all that much, but just being around him made her heart flutter. His writing skills, his good hygiene, the way he spoke to her. But, what plastered a smile over her face the most, was how she felt listened to when being around him. The only flaw he had, however, was that he was kind of dead from the neck up when it came to recognizing an actual problem.
Finally, she’d press the pen down and begin writing.
“Hell in a handbasket am I carrying. Mistakes are made, too many, making me one myself. Poor Fuchsia. She never deserved the backhand of my greed. My clawed fingers, plucking from the thousand specks below. A radge am I.”
Just thinking about the disgusting memo she gave that poor girl made her want to burst into tears. She didn’t want forgiveness, or even a hug. She wanted peace between the two of them. That was it. She was slowly coming back to her right mind, at that moment.
Until she thought of Monika. The green-eyed shrew, she thought.
Monika didn’t always make her skin crawl. She only became this way when the new boy showed up. Now, she’s club enemy number one. The vice president hasn’t shown back up to the club in days. And, she was pretty sure that this started when Monika said one measly thing to her. What the hell happened?
She’d hyperventilate upon imagining the club president getting with her “true” love, and continue writing, albeit with a slightly shaky grip.
“All of this for the warmth of a man. Inclination. Seize my hair and have my neck strung with it, for my apathy. The universe is shrieking at me to execrate another. Not you, Fuchsia. Not you. I saw the bruise on your flesh once. I was too cowardly to tackle your issue with hammer and tongs, and I am pitying.”
“I share with you, however. The envious leviathan strangling me with a shit-eating grin. The serpent sockpuppeteering. She made you this way.”
Yuri would drop her pen on her desk and grab the collar of her blazer, sweating buckets from head to toe. She couldn’t handle thinking about her. She couldn’t handle having more than one emotion at this point, either. She’d hurriedly open her drawer right next to her, and clutch onto what she thought would be her escape.
An inhaler. Half-full of albuterol. 
One puff she took. The first puff of the day, in fact. Nothing. Two puffs; still nothing. Three. Four. Five. Overreliance at its finest. Nothing worked. Truth be told, she was gasping even quicker now. She’d bellow to her ceiling, but not before chucking her inhaler toward her bed.
“Why isn’t it fucking working!?”
She heard murmurs and giggles in her ear. Drums smashing her heart like glass. The walls transformed into the patterns of one’s insides. The floor and ceiling looked peeled, like open gashes over one’s stomach. Spongy and pulpy, like a baby’s jowl, with only remnants of human bone. Intestines strung over her bed, now a pulsating mass of mind matter.
Yuri stood up, and contemplated running out, but her vile sneer would tell her otherwise. She had to finish it.
“FUCKED SIDEWAYS WITH STEEL, I DREAM. I WANT HER EATING IT. I WANT HER GAGGING WHEN I SHRED HER UVULA WITH MY POINT. I WANT HER BESEECHING ME TO CALM DOWN. I WANT TO SEE MASCARA RUN FROM HER GLOBES. I FEEL WORMS CRAWLING INSIDE OF MY FROZEN FACE. MY FINGERS TWITCHING, MY TEETH CHATTERING.”
Her vision, accompanying the walls drenched in nothing but guts, would spot faces. Many faces of her enemy, pushing outside of the walls and floor, chuckling at her. Circling her entire body like a carousel, gossiping about her personal life. Desperately trying to ignore, slowly failing, she would continue scrawling on her journal.
“WHISPERING MY NAME IS THE MANY-HEADED BEAST. IT’S THIRSTY FOR VIRGIN BLOOD. IT’S SOILING ITSELF FROM THE GODLESS THOUGHT OF FINISHING ME OFF, WRAPPING ITS FINGERS AROUND MY SORE NECK. I AM NOT A PUPPET I AM NOT A PUPPET I AM NOT A PUPPET I AM NOT A PUPPET”
After destroying her work with chicken scratch, words that jumped into her head reminding her of the girl and her terrifying unknown, Yuri couldn’t take it anymore. She rushed over to her gutty, sickening mound that was once her bed, and she’d shove her arm underneath it, pulling out a box, alongside wine red fluids soaking her upper limb. Inside was a vast collection of combat knives. She’d smirk wider, knowing how well these came in handy. To her.
She blamed the inhaler. Believing that the albuterol was “infecting” her body, unknowing of what sort of heart-throbbing horror was really happening.
Grasping the handle of her sharpest tool, she’d slam the blade of truth into her forearm, and begin carving through it. Sawing through her muscle and tissue like wood. Did the mist of pure anxiety come out? There was no mist. Only the disgusting gash that she furiously sliced into. Her pupils were constricting and dilating at a rapid pace, flickering, with her snarl now unnaturally wide. She would rip the poem from her journal and glare at the markings all over it, wondering what came over her, still in her ill state, before tilting her head backward.
Two minutes passed as Yuri gasped for breath. Begging for everything to stop. Wanting to pierce the veil of Monika’s torso so badly, that it hurt her own being, in and out. As she bled out from her forearm, her bag below would void itself, staining a small amount of the poem in her urine. Her tears would descend from her face, dampening the paper as well.
Recollecting herself, she stumbled to her bathroom and shoved the door open, scrambling through her medicine cabinet, and pulling out a roll of gauze. It took some time, gnawing at the veiling with her teeth, but she managed to wrap up her arm with ease. The loss of blood, however, made her vision blur on her way out, and she fell with a thud, lying motionless upstairs.
Then, presumably from how fast time moves by, and still on the ground, she woke up to the sunlight shining from her window outside of the open bedroom door. Was it a dream? She was still in her uniform, stains of crimson and other bodily fluids apparent. How was she still alive, even after all of that?
She was paranoid. She couldn’t tell anyone about what she had experienced. To herself, she just had to keep a secret; hide it from the Literature Club’s discretion. After washing her hands, changing to her secondary uniform, and taking deep breaths to her mirror, she’d walk outside with a smile, pretending nothing had ever happened.
However, she was unaware of how fast she would lose control of her hysteria later that day. What the others didn't know, was that she always kept an extra utility tool in her backpack.
Category:Video Games
Category:Video Game Creepypasta
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Poems
Category:Lafawnda's Reading Hour