She sighed, her heels clicking along the dark, marbled tile, her thoughts hazy. The only thought that seemed to echo the loudest was "Why am I not happy?" Her fake smiles were proof of the actress she could be, fooling anyone who passed her by. Maybe her acting was too good. She wanted to cry for help, but a part of her was afraid to, so her sliced wrists stayed hidden underneath long sweater sleeves, much like the long, mocha turtleneck she wore. More scars were covered by her black pencil skirt and thick tights. Her husband had been horrified by how many stripes appeared on her body, until he couldn't handle her depression anymore. Rather than help, he left. He asked for no answer as to why she kissed the razor blades against her dark skin, but only picked up the children and left her alone. She was alone with her demons again.
What I'm about to tell you, is 100% NSFW, but it needs to be heard. Silence can be our greatest enemy.