Dowoon peered into his sister’s dim room; his large, dark eyes were curious. This was a sight to see for those who knew him; curiosity was a dusty word in his dictionary.

His long fingers were curled around her wooden door frame and he crept in silently, eyes locked onto the girl who looked very familiar. She sat at his sister’s desk; her face was illuminated by the light her laptop emitted. She continued typing on her laptop, eyes scanning for something.

“Hello,” Dowoon’s soft voice surprised even himself. If the girl had heard him, she made no effort to acknowledge his presence.

He peered over her shoulder, squinting against the light, his eyes slowly adjusting.

What he found there surprised him.

Photoshopped pictures were displayed. They gave an uncomfortable twist in his stomach, and he knew immediately that they would have been better off unseen. He discovered rows of profanity and discouragement in the form of comments, hatred billowing from the cruel words.

The girl turned, her large, dark eyes begging.

Dowoon understood. She wanted him to keep silent. He was okay with that. He was the best at keeping silent.

“Mom, who’s the new girl?” Dowoon asked between a mouthful of cereal.

His mother’s hand stopped stirring her bitter coffee. “Why do you ask?” Dowoon shrugged, watching his mother carefully as he began to pack his lunch bag.

His mother only raised her eyebrows but knew better than to say anything.

The doctors were wrong, it was happening far earlier than they had said.

An attachment to a dead sister had been a bad combination for a boy watching himself rot away along with her. He was already gone, just like his sister.

The woman watched as her son slipped more and more out of her reach.

Dowoon watched helplessly as the girl sobbed in his sister’s bed, head buried in her pillow, muffling screams that would never reach ears. His sister’s blanket was wrapped tightly around her, curled into a question mark filled with problems in need of solutions. He could only stay quiet.

Stay quiet. That was the problem.

Filled with new resolve, he slipped silently out her room.

He would get help.

Dowoon knocked on the girl’s door. “Hello?” Dowoon felt something was off. He was met with silence, but it was an unusual silence, a deafening silence.

He slowly opened her door, peering in cautiously as he squinted against the darkness. He brought one foot into his room. Something cylindrical met it, and it rolled, stopping at an unmoving body. His breath caught in his throat as he soon realized what it was.

It was a bottle of pills.

It was an empty bottle of pills.

Now he knew why everything was too quiet. There was no usual clicking of a mouse, the sound of long fingers tapping against a keyboard, no more muffled screams.

There was just silence. Dowoon knew why. He had been too late.

The girl lay as still as a rock, and his eyes searched frantically for anything, for any sign of life, but there was nothing given to fuel his hope.

His resolve crumbled, and he fell to his knees, cradling the girl he had sworn to save.

He had been too late.

His eyes were caught by the glare of the laptop as it silently came to life, another cruel message on display. The laptop was black, the name Dowoon written in large letters on the black, yet he did not know. He did not know that he was holding empty air, that those messages were not to a girl painted in his mind, but to him.

He was too late to save himself and he did not even know it.

He cried, his heart thumping for a way out of his chest. He didn’t want the pain he found there, his hands tugged at his hair. His bitter tears came. They rolled down his cheeks and onto the carpeted floor. His mouth was opened in a scream, letting loose for all the words he could never say.

He cried for the girl that never existed.

Hello reader, it’s Spyce here. 

This wasn’t meant to be a light read and I’ve spent some time wondering if I should even post this, but I knew I wanted to show another perspective on this. Whatever you want to call this cruelty.

Mental illness isn’t supposed to be romanticised. It’s an ugly thing and it’s heartbreaking that so many people still fight it alone. I, for one, don’t see how there is anything remotely beautiful about any aspect of it. Being triggered isn’t just some term for being annoyed or mad. 

People with actual diagnosed health issues have to use words that are constantly demeaned on an everyday basis: triggered, OCD

Also, not all people who cut have depression. I would dive more into attention seekers who post their cuts for likes and pity, but that’s another post for another day. 

It’s not okay to be cruel and it’s not okay to feel safe behind a screen. If you have nothing to say, say nothing at all. If you are a victim of either mental illness or cyberbullying, just know that you don’t have to fight this alone. 

“Everyone’s words, whether online or off, carry weight. Before you post something, realize that you need to take responsibility for what you’ve written. Don’t ever think “Oh what I said didn’t matter”, because it did and you will take responsibility, one way or another.” -Jae 2017