Open Wounds

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
words cut deep

Submitted: August 06, 2017

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Submitted: August 06, 2017

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The day I was born I was a fresh sheet, naïve, and susceptible to external forces, brought into this cold, dark, and heartless world. That day, tears were shed – unknown to be happy or sad – looking at what had been conceived. I was supposed to be a form of relief from her sad, lonely life. So there I was lying on her arms, as she stared intently at me with those red puffy eyes, asking herself whether I was really what she needed to keep herself going.

From then on, I accompanied her wherever she went: to work, to the hospital, and back home. This seemed like an endless cycle, and with each passing day I was growing little by little. I met her friends, listened to their conversations. I found out she was an altruist, and she tried her best to help everyone, even outside of her own capabilities. During the course of which she helped me find new friends, afraid that I too would be like her, growing up all sad and lonely.

I still remember how I waited with her on the countless dates that she arranged, waiting for the person to turn up, before tactfully taking my leave. She didn’t want to let her partner know about me just yet. But when they did, they left more hurriedly than when they first laid eyes on her jolie visage. And so, I took full blame, she lashed out at me, screamed and called both us unsightly and disgusting, and flung the mirror against the cold hard ground. Taking each piece and mirrored copies of me, and in each shattered glass shard, she saw herself and her heart – both equally fragmented.

I hid behind pieces of fabric when her parents came over to visit. It was a weekly thing, to make sure she was still sane, healthy, and coping. Curiosity always got the better of me, and I’d try to peek out from behind the covers, but she was always quicker than me. She’d rapidly pull down the covers, or hide me with a scarf that she donned ever since the day I was born. But that one day when her parents had a surprise visit, they saw me. I still remember how her father struck her, and that crack of the skin-on-skin contact that sent vibrations of pain tremoring through her nerves. But still she held it in. I remember how he squeezed me so tightly by the sides she was trying so hard not to shout.  I still remember how she swallowed the pain and all I could do was cry.

As the days went by, the things she fed me with went from bad to worse, as she gave me the things she didn’t like, so she wouldn’t need to take them in herself. I felt like my mouth was forcefully opened to accept them, that every single meal left me tearing.

Every night since everyone deserted her, she would tell me about how her day went, sometimes about how she tried to send a text message to her best friend – the only ever one that talks to her occasionally – and how she would just… trail off midway, just staring at the interface as she watched that single tick against a last sent chat from two weeks ago. If not, she would be taking off her masks one by one and putting them back inside her heart, telling me never to grow up to be like her, that what I am should explain who I really was.  Then she’d tuck me in and tell me to rest, thank me for listening to her ramble on and on, and she’d lie next to me, patting on until even she fell asleep.

The nights are clear, but they were suffused with sloth and sullen expectations, something I woke up each day to realise.

She was a happy person, kind, innocent, and oblivious to the world around her. She thought that the world was perfect, that she could help everyone whenever possible. She refused to believe that anyone had ulterior motives. She was always there when anyone needed help. But when she was the one who needed help the most, the path was clear and desolate. Even her parents couldn’t face the reality that their daughter had produced such a thing. She tried so many times to be rid of me, but the scars were too deep, and she found herself making more and more, especially after drowning herself bottle after bottle. She realised that I was the only one who stayed on permanently, that stayed by her whenever she needed help.

Yet today, she still looks like that same happy person, carefree, and ambitious in her goals. But on days when she couldn’t keep up the act, and became silent and withdrawn, she wished she had the courage to say that she was definitely not fine. She wished she had the strength to counter that suffocation that left her fighting back not only tears but words, left trapped between the passage from her heart to her brain and back, that could've expressed herself.  That whatever came out was simply a sigh that didn't mean anything but apparently meant "I'm fine" and "I'm really OK, I really have no problems" but it was just mere autocorrect that filled in the spaces when she deleted the words that could’ve been sent out of her mouth.

That night she lay in bed, with me right beside her, covering me up with plasters that we had used as blankets, and tried to cry herself to sleep. Today she had no words, she just hoped the tears would stop the agony, mitigate the suffering, alleviate the pain. She was tired of how someone had to pluck off the covers, and take pleasure in the blood fondue that oozed out, savouring that thick solid precipitation served with a glass of tears.

Still, she wished “If everyone I loved dearly lived happily for the rest of eternity, that would be the greatest thing I would be able to do.” And yes, she loved herself dearly. That night she picked up the last bottle hanging on the wall, felt the alcohol rush and burn through her oesophagus as she gulped down the liquid. She held the now empty bottle against the moonlight and smashed it against the side of the bed. And so, she let her blood, sweat, and tears ooze out like dark secrets, until they were all drained.

And so, she lay there, her final breath turned air, and so was I, all dried up, sticking cold and hard against her skin.


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