The Edge and the Immobile Catcher

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Her lips were so cracked and bloodied, they looked as if she had attempted to carve every negative self-commentary she had ever thought into the crevices of her thin, pink lips. Her face — florescent pale and glue quality pasty — hadn’t seen the sun since Microsoft has seen innovation. She had been reduced down to nothing but the clothes that loosely draped over her back and the sickly thoughts that dragged themselves through her mind. She wanted nothing more to do with herself. She wanted to pull her brain out of her skull and place it in a jar next to her heart and spirit. To never think again meant tranquility. No more disturbances from the demons that ran amok  in her veins. No more thoughts or whispers of an indelicate, blade-equipped word. Her soul was made of the thinnest of paper soaked in the most polluted of water. She had nothing to offer the world except a dim sense of self and utter disillusionment. The black-and-white world advertised to her as a child turned out to be instead grayscale. 

Was she worth saving?

To her, not in the least bit anymore.

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