Shadowless

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something that haunts me to this day.

Submitted: February 24, 2017

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Submitted: February 24, 2017

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Years of writing has reduced me to this: a bare mortality to feed greedily to the manufactured humanity. I feel like I’ve died a hundred times over to help a dear friend of mine, yet she can’t be helped. She keeps reverting back to a primitive angst of anxiety and worry. She gets herself depressed, falls, stumbles, and finds her way back to her boyfriend. It pisses me off. I can’t stand how a mind so crumbled could be fostered into slaving to their masters. We abolished slavery a long time ago. And still, she remains a slave to her boyfriend.

Yes, I’m sure you know the type: they feed their boyfriend. They clothe their boyfriend. Buy them gifts. “Love” them unconditionally. Hell, give their bodies to them. And still that’s not enough. They’re mistreated, neglected, abandoned, abused, emotionally and physically, and still, the woman runs back to the man.

What the hell? I’m not a saint, but a real man wouldn’t treat a significant other like that. I sure as hell wouldn’t. I can’t believe it. My stomach boils acid around thinking about it. Certain days I end up puking disturbing thoughts about the harm I could do. About how I could kill her boyfriend. Or that I could bash his skull in a few times until he understood the wrong he has done her.

If I can teach you here reading this anything, it would be to tell you not to give in to what I have done. I remember not his name, but there was a psychologist who described this phenomenon as what is dubbed as “the shadow.” Corny, I know. But believe the principle. In every mind, there is a breaking point. When the torment becomes undeniable rage, when the abuse develops you into an abuser yourself, when you become the very thing you fought against, that’s “the shadow.” 

The shadow feeds you a list of illegal thoughts. Sure they are as illegal as the written law would entail, but I don’t even mean that necessarily. Have you ever had the thought of killing someone you hated? Not just killing them. Making them suffer. Bleed uncontrollably. Or taking a knife and peeling back the very cornea beneath their eyes. Or feeling their broken body break with your hands as you repeatedly snap the bones in their body. That’s “the shadow.” It’s what separates you from the primitive nature animals still have: instinct.

I apologize. Not much of this is making sense without backstory. There was a poignant time in my life when I had set up my values and headed off to college, assuming that my life was complete and would be completed. Help would not be needed and people would be even less relied upon. I was comfortable without friends, without a family beside me holding my hand, and glad to stroll down the city streets without the obligation to talk to a single passerby. It was wonderful for the first few days of classes. 

That is until I met him.

He was like me in a sense that he kept to himself, but couldn’t because he was a late comer to class. And when you are late to a class, you get undivided attention. So that made him a popular hit with a few of the sad girls that wanted a companion and a friend. So he became a chatting sensation. I didn’t care enough to talk to the kid, but a girl I had feelings for at the time comforted me in. She talked to the stranger first and I followed in behind her steps. I regrettably decided to talk to him.

The first words wouldn’t be let down as we lived in the comfort of each other.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I said in a purely innocent kind nurture. 

He seemed taken aback at the happiness I bestowed within the voice and mildly replied courtesy back. The conversation rose from television shows, to like minded interest, to random obscure details of life, and before I knew it, a week went by and he had become my best friend. To me, he was exactly what I wanted: an opposite.

We shared many of the same interests and outlooks on life, but I was a happy soul with dark thoughts. He was a dark man with happiness inside. Together, we were perfect because we could laugh and the tangibility the world had to offer and get away with it. There was a magic to it I suppose. For the span of two years we had each other’s backs this way. We laughed, cried, and made it through the work the world had to offer. As best friends. 

Even now, writing it down seems to confuse me. A best friend. Do you have one? How would you measure it? He was my best friend because I had no one else. No one who really knew me and appreciated me for that. You could argue that’s a quality of a best friend, but a best friend can be as feeble as a stranger when it comes back down to simplicity. Maybe that’s pessimistic. I wouldn’t say for certain. But “the shadow” would know.

So in the span of two years a woman enters our lives essentially. A woman that is adorable, smaller than both of us, older than both of us, and gives us a little more purpose to the jokes of our lives. That woman became his girlfriend.

And at first, it was wonderful. Sure I felt like a third wheel at times, but it was the locomotion I loved. I felt like I had a new family, one that could reciprocate the love I had back. His girlfriend did if that’s any consolation. But him. No.

He was fine with me, but within another year, his girlfriend would come to me with problems. Why is he yelling at me? Why is he ignoring me? Why is making me come over? Why is he hurting me? Why did he choke me? Why does he make me massage his back for hours? Why does he make me do his work? It became a to-do list rather than a reality. Soon enough, I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn't be a bystander to her abuse and how much I truly cared for. And so I did something. And it was something the shadow did that made me not what I was before.

I can blame it on “the shadow,” but I know that I am responsible. If you give in, you will be too. Understand the harm this fabrication can have. I won’t mention what I did to her boyfriend, but know that it has landed me here, writing for years to come as a bare mortality to feed the manufactured humanity. Such as yourselves. 


© Copyright 2017 LeoHarp. All rights reserved.

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