Personal Narrative: Ariana Grande's Home

2:14AM. Frankie’s apartment was both cold and tranquil. The walls were a light grey, and the blinds were shut only to where the slightest bit of city lights shone through. Ariana tossed and turned around the flimsy pullout couch, continuously flipping her pillow over in hopes that the cooler side would prove soothing. She had visited her brother’s New York loft with an unfortunate mindset. It seemed that as each day elapsed, she found her pace quickening as she relentlessly continued to stroll down the path to her own destruction; she was falling through the darkness of her own mind, hastily descending into that frigid, black crevice in which she had, to some extent, always been imprisoned in. Going to another with her troubles had seemed like

On that screen, she looked lifeless, as though a breeze might carry her away. “I am afraid, and alone, and trapped. I am choking on my own pathetic fears…— I have been for years, but I don’t blame anyone for this except for myself. If I had more courage, then maybe I could have changed things. Maybe if I wasn’t such a burden, things would be different. I’ve spent so long fighting and putting on a false front, and… it never worked out as I had hoped it would.” Feeling her lips begin to quiver, and her focus clouding up, she pressed the tip of the bottle to her mouth once more, using the alcohol as an attempt to halt oncoming tears. She then clutched the drink to her chest, continuing on. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry to my friends… for leaving you… for never trusting what you would say to me… I’m sorry to my family… for lying… I’m sorry that Frankie is going to find me dead in the morning… I’m sorry to my fans… I’m sorry for giving up… I love you guys more than I’ve ever loved anything… I’m sorry to my dad…” She paused, eyes shooting away from the camera. The girl tried to save herself from tears by chugging, but once the bottle ran out, she was left at the point in which she could no longer control her breath. She was choking on the air she inhaled, like a child fighting to stop crying. “I’m so sorry, dad…” Ariana whimpered, forcing air from her lungs as she

Her collarbones came to a point, almost too sharply defined. She ran her fingertips across her ribcage, allowing them to trail up and down with each valley she encountered. Bruises, old and fresh alike, were painted across her face and limbs. She never realized how truly fragile she was. Ariana drunkenly stumbled backwards, her vision starting to swirl. She quickly snatched up a meat knife from the countertop, one she had snuck from the kitchen, before locking the bathroom door. The first drag of the metal across her leg felt like heaven. Her eyes were closed, savoring the feeling as her entire body trembled, like a heroin addict. She takes in a deep breath, filling her lungs to the max. Deeply, slowly, in and then out, only once. Her eyes eased open and her head dropped, watching the hope leave her body, trickling red from the wound. She continued the process on her arms, stomach, and the space remaining on her thighs. Blood pooled on her tan skin, and she examined the wounds that had been sliced in all different directions, going vertically, horizontally, and diagonally. None more than two were exceptionally deep. The knife itself was dull, limiting the damage she could