Help.

I used symbols throughout the whole thing. This is not a real story.


Crowded street corners scream her name. She gently cradles herself in the middle of the sidewalk, sitting gravely still. She looks around for a helping hand to reach out for her. No one dares to look down at her. She's dirty. She's broken. She's hungry. No one stops their busy lives to save her from her weakening body. She's desperate for help. Any help. But she won't reach out and ask for it. She sits and waits for someone to come rescue her. Someone to hold her. Someone to tell her that it will be okay. People pass quickly without even a glance down at her empty body. Depression sinks deep down into her soul, her body, her everything ... She's lost all hope in anything. She finds herself praying to a distant god, "take me home ... take me home ..." the only words she speaks out loud repetitively are those of horse whispers "take me home ... take me home ... take me home ..." she digs into her pocket and pulls out the only comfort she has for herself. She gently places a needle in her palm and she stares at the blood-stained point. She pulls up her sleeve and brushes her fingertips over the red bumps on the inside of her arm. Twenty seven scars will haunt her for the rest of her life. She cringes at the thought. She gently presses the needle against her skin, tracing a line of what she will soon be marked with blood. The second streak pressed harder. The third even harder. She will go over the path of ripped skin until she feels satisfaction and peace within herself. She finally feels no more pain. She just sees it. She can't cry. She won't allow herself. She finally looks up to the people passing. Still; no one looks at her. A drop of blood falls from her wrist, and she feels satisfied. She makes a tight fist around the needle, and sits on the curb, feeling completely alone. No one will ever love her. She has become someone she never thought she would be. She is horrible. She is disgusting. These people won't even acknowledge that she's alive. That she's real. That she's sitting there committing suicide right in front of their eyes. She stabs the needle back into her arm hard, and she rips the skin away, and sees the familiar dark red flow from her arm to her palms. No one sees. No one notices. She feels completely broken. Completely alone. All these people passing he must be fake. They must be. Wouldn't they help? Wouldn't they see? She suddenly hears a voice behind her, "Hi. You look hurt. Is there any way I can help you?" She thinks to herself they must be talking to someone else. No one had even taken a quick look at her the whole time she had been on this street corner. She didn't say a word. The voice grew stronger, and approached her and knelt down. She thought she was dreaming. He looked her straight in the eye, "please let me help you." Her cracking voice only came out a whisper, "I ... I'm fine." He hesitated, not knowing exactly what to say. He looked at the blood stain on her long sleeve shirt, "You don't look fine to me. Here ... let me help you." He smiled, stood up, and reached his hand out to her. She stayed still and silent, afraid that he will pull away when he sees her bloody hands. She gently shook her head. "Come on. I can really help you. Take my hand." She put her hands in front of her, and surveys the streaks of blood crossing both palms of her hands. She looked back up at him, ready to see a disgusted reaction and watch him turn away. "Take my hand. I'm not afraid to touch you." He smiled again, and reached his hand to grab hers. Hesitantly, she allowed him to take her by the hand and help her to her feet. He didn't let go of her hand there, he kept walking, keeping his hand pressed against hers. He spoke again after a few steps ... "Have you ever heard of Jesus?"