Silenced

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: emotional

Submitted: December 19, 2017

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Submitted: December 19, 2017

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It hurts

I’m screaming

Screaming so loud

Can’t you hear me?

Can’t you see me?

Do you even care?

I can’t move…my limbs, they’re weighted down. I can’t lift them. I can’t move anything, not even my head.

Oh come on, stop being so dramatic.

But…I can’t move.

Yes you can.

Can we say I’m sick? Stay home?

And say what to mom? “Oh, sorry, I’m such a whiny little bitch that I can’t move myself.” Do you really thing she’d believe that?

No…

Good. Now quit making stuff up and get your lazy ass out of bed already. We’re going to be late.

Getting out of bed feels so wrong…it’s like I’m forcing myself through an ocean of mud. Every step is a chore. But I do it. I get my contacts in, I get dressed, I make sure my bag is packed for school, and then I go downstairs, even though my body is screaming for me not to. I eat the food that seems completely inedible, the smell of it makes me recoil and it tastes like a lead weight inside me, urging me to just give in and collapse on the floor, never to get up again. But I say my goodbyes to mom, waving off my blank and tired look as the typical morning dread.

The bus is no better. The walls are shrinking around me, forming my personal death bed. The sounds of students screaming and laughing rings in my ears, constantly berating them without mercy. The farther the bus moves the more it hurts. The string attached to me pulls, becoming unbearably taught. The bus pulls up to the school and I’m amazed to find my organs still intact, I could have sworn my string would have torn them out. I almost wished that it had. Missing organs seems like a great excuse to miss school. But unfortunately my luck doesn’t run that deep, I still have to maneuver myself off the bus, being forced to watch the other student’s grace and agility down the steps while I can barely manage to not trip myself.

I’m forced to watch while everyone interacts with such ease. Everyone seems to be valued in some way. They all are found interesting by somebody. Somebody cares about them. Somebody notices them. I can’t help but be envious. There seems to be a place for everybody…except me. Nobody wants me, not really. But it’s not as if I can blame them. I’m ugly. I can’t move normally. I’m not interesting. I can’t speak to people. I’m not normal, and nobody likes that.

So I head to my locker. Head down, but not too down. Careful, don’t make eye contact, but don’t look like you’re avoiding it either- that’s a clear giveaway. Just pretend to be absorbed in something else. Thank god for books.

Oh shit. Friends.

Just avoid them.

“Hey!”

Shit. Nope. I do not see you. Friend? What friend? I do not see you. Nope. I love this book too much. Nope, I can not hear you. Totally focused on something else. Nope. Nope. Nope.

Good, I passed you. Now, just don’t follow me. Do not follow me. Notice that I don’t want anyone around me. Don’t notice me. I hurt too much to be noticed right now.

But…why aren’t you following me? You just went off talking to someone else… Don’t I matter? Don’t you care? Why wont you? Why won’t you just notice my pain? Notice me?

Like every day, I head to the library. It’s quiet there. People don’t try to talk to you there. If I cry, I can blame it on the book. Nobody has to know. Nobody has to care. I nearly scream when the bell rings. Some crappy music comes on and I make my way to gym. I hate it there, more than words can describe. I’m terrified. I head to the bathroom area of the locker room, ducking behind a couple of curtains in the showering area. Everybody in the locker room is so pretty and confident. If I went and changed with them I’d become even more of a laughing stock. It’s just easier to go where no one can see me.

Can’t I just stay in here?

Nope.

Why not? We can just stay in here and skip, leaving once everyone else is gone.

No, a few people have already noticed you.

We can wait until everyone’s in the gym and then sneak off to the library.

People would notice a girl walking to the library, plus a coach always drifts around the outside of the gym. Not to mention: you’ve already been seen.

Damn.

Dressing into the gym uniform is torture. I’m too lazy to wash it very often so I know I smell awful. Everyone probably thinks I’m a hobo or something. Plus the uniform makes me look even uglier than I already am, so I must really look homeless right now. I hate my body. My legs are too short and way too fat. My stomach is impossibly huge. My face is weird. I have permanent indents under my eyes. My nose is bent weird. I’m entirely out of proportion. This is why I avoid mirrors. Because being forced to look at myself and see what the world sees brings forth a pain that even the cool pinch of a knife can’t ease. Looking in the mirror breaks down my barriers; breaches the walls I’ve made to protect myself from the urge to end it all. To be honest, I’m not even sure why I try anymore. It’d be a mercy to everyone if I just went through with it. It’d be so nice…just to rest…to get in a place without fear or worry or hate or pain or shame. It’d be so nice…but not right now.

Right now I walk to the gym. Though, to be honest, my walk is more like a waddle. An awkward series of disjointed movements that no normal person could ever fathom making.

Be more normal. Be more normal. Just blend in. Blend in and maybe they’ll stop laughing at you. Blend in and maybe they won’t notice. Maybe they won’t ask.

I used to be with a small group. They were nice people, with kind faces and open humor. I’m not with them now, though. I wasn’t interesting enough fro them, I think. When I walked with them I’d always get sort of pushed out…no one would notice or acknowledge my presence. I was invisible to them. They never noticed when I stopped walking with them. Or, if they did they didn’t react to it. They never noticed when I didn’t come to class or when I stayed on the sidelines. So now it’s better to be all alone than to pretend to have friends, pretending that I matter. I’m too tied to pretend. It’s hard enough to keep a face that doesn’t reveal how much pain I feel inside. If people knew, I’d become a laughing stock for sure. Because nobody wants to know… Not really.

My thoughts are interrupted as the coach calls us to jog on the track outside. It feels nice out, cool and breezy, no glaring bright sun that seems to demand energy. Instead it’s cloudy out, calm. I’m thankful for the shaded weather as I start jogging. I run alone as usual. The group I once had having abandoned me and no one else suicidal enough to talk to me either. I would talk to them except they would most likely just recoil in disgust- anybody would. And it’s not like I can actually blame them. Just like I can’t blame the pretty people behind me, laughing.

“Look at her run!” laughter

“No! No! No! It’s like this!” more laughter

“How does she even do that?!” shrieks of howling giggles and snorts.

I’m scared.

Hush, they’re probably not even talking about you.

You know they are.

Why? What have I ever done to them?

You existed, dumbass. Don’t you know that weirdos like you aren’t allowed in society?

But, I can’t help it…I’m scared.

I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared.

Please stop laughing at me

I’m running. Running fast, running hard. Running to get away. Running to escape. I can’t hear them behind me as loud, now. But they’re starting to jog, too. I have to get away from them. I don’t know what I did to upset them, but I never would have done it if I knew they’d hate me so much for it.

I’ve been telling you. It’s because you exist. Everything about you is perfect comedy material- perfect comedic opportunities for those looking to improve their social rank.

But don’t they know how it feels? How scared I am of them?

No. They’re pretty. They’ve never had to go through what you have. But even if they did know, would you really give up a perfect social climbing opportunity? One that’s so ridiculously easy to obtain?

No.

So you can’t blame them, can you?

No. I’m still scared though.

I know. So run. Run so you don’t have to face whatever jokes they’re currently making. Later you can maybe listen in to what they’re saying and use those jokes to know how to fix yourself, but for now, just run.

I run even harder. I keep running until I finally finish, then hurry up the bleacher stairs until I reach the very top- the position farthest away from where all the pretty people gather.

All class long I continue to be aware. They laugh so much and so hard. They’re terrifying. My legs shake as I retreat into my little corner at the back of the locker room showering stalls. I hurriedly dress, playing the popular “don’t look down at yourself” game that I make myself play. I got out at the bell and made my way to my next class. Almost everything is the same from that point on.

Don’t look up at those people laughing at you.

They’re making fun of the way we move.

Why can’t I be normal for once?

This isn’t how normal people do things

 Why is it do hard for you to just blend in?!

Why can’t I do anything right?!

Why am I always messing things up?

Why did I say that?

Why?

Why can’t I die?

This goes on and on and on. It’s the brutal cycle that never stops. It has no beginning, and no end. It’s just rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

“Are you okay?”

Yes.”

“You look sad.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You look really tired.”

“Didn’t sleep well last night, you know?”

“Totally. Well, goodbye.”

It’s the same story, again and again. The only thing that ever changes is my pain. It seems to be getting worse. I wish I had an actual problem. I wish that I could suffer, even more. I want to hurt, I want to experience the greatest agony and inner turmoil possible without actual death involved. Because that’s what I owe them. All of these people with actual problems, actual pain and hurt. I deserve to take on their pain, I deserve to crumble under the weight. I deserve to suffer a fate worse than death for ever considering myself among them. Comparing my measly little drama tantrums to their issues disgraces them. The comparison disgraces everyone to ever have a mental issue, and that is unforgivable. That’s why I keep myself alive. I want to die. I want to stop everything and step into a world of peace and oblivion, but I don’t deserve it. So I keep going through the cycle. I never let myself stop or let up. Because if I do, I won’t ever get back up again. I’ll fail, and land in the oblivion that I have done nothing to earn. I go on.

The longer I go the more intense the pain. It’s ripping me apart, but I need to hold myself together. I’m so, so tired. I’m being ripped at the seams and I have to try so hard all the time to not let myself have the mercy of falling apart.

But…how long can I keep going like this?

As long as we need to.

I’m tired, though. And it hurts.

Good.

Can’t I ease this somehow?

No.

Please?

No. Never.

Will you ever let me out? PLEASE!

No.

I keep going.

I keep going for I don’t know how long. I no longer have the energy to pay attention in my classes. It all seems so meaningless, so trivial. Caring takes energy that I just don’t have. It’s so hard to resist the urge to just scream. Scream and keep screaming and tear everything apart. I’m about to burst, to finally succumb to my inner pressure when someone appears in front of me, blocking my way to the library.

“Hey.”

“Uh, hey.”

“Is everything alright? You’ve been looking kind of down lately.”

Shit. Don’t give in, just keep everything calm. It’s a disaster if anyone finds out.

“Well…”

No. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. DO NOT TELL. You’ll be ruined!

“Yeah?”

Don’t be noticed, don’t notice me, don’t notice me, don’t notice me.

“Can we talk somewhere more private?”

NO! STOP!

“Um, yeah. Sure…I’ll have to get back to my friends though.”

THIS IS A BAD SIGN. JUST BACKOUT ALREADY

”I know, thanks.”

Shit.

 

I don’t know why I told her. I bet I’ve ruined everything.

But, won’t I be noticed now? Maybe someone’ll care.

Why won’t you learn? No one ever cares. They only tease and ostracize. They’re constantly on the hunt for weaknesses they can exploit and now you’ve handed them a comedy gold mine. No one sympathizes the sad girl. They only laugh at how miserable she acts, how different she really is. Congratulations, you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. Dumb bitch.

I still have hope that someone will care, though. I still have hope that maybe everyone won’t hate me.

Fool.

Everything looks normal, though. No one seems to be looking at me weird. So I continue as normal. Locker, books, library, then to class. I’m still incapable of achieving any hint of normalcy in my actions, but at least no one seems to notice more than usual. Good signs, good signs.

For now. Just wait, though. This can’t last forever- especially with that big juicy secret of yours.

Shut up.

No. Because you know I’m right.

I do. I do know I’m right. Especially as I walk into gym. There people notice. A couple of heads swivel as they see me out of the corner of their eyes. And suddenly I have almost everybody’s attention. Attention I do not want.

“Hey, it’s you!”

“Um…yeah.”

“Omg so I heard about you from a friend or something and I just really wanted to know something,” giggles from around the room. “Can I see it?’

“See what?”

“Your wrist, dummy! Can I see your wrists? I’ve seen it in movies but I’ve never seen anybody like, for real, like ever, you know?”

“Uh…”

Well, you’ve done it now, dumbass. THIS is why we don’t tell people. THIS is why we keep our calm. THIS is why we’ve worked so hard ALL THIS TIME to not be noticed. I hope you’re happy.

No, no I’m not. I’m not happy. I don’t want this. I do not want this. Please help?

Nope. You’ve painted yourself into a corner. Either by showing the chick or denying it, you’ll still be painting a literal target on your back. There’s nothing you can do now to fake your innocence.

Can’t we at least try? Maybe if we show them nothing they’ll eventually leave me alone.

It won’t work. But you can try.

So, I head into the gym on shaky legs. I can feel my blood racing through me. Pumping. And pumping. And pumping, way too fast. I start walking around the gym perimeter, a safe distance away from everyone else, hoping I have it right. Not too far, or I’m practically begging to be the butt of some new joke. But I can’t get too close either. Too close and I’m noticed. Too close and people will lean back away from me, revolted by my presence, by the fact that I’m still living. That I’m still breathing their air. That I’m still occupying their space.

But there seems to be even more attention on me than usual. That chick from the locker room, she’s talking with some friends. I hear their peals of laughter, harsh and spiteful. I see them looking at me, a few are pointing. Others are snickering behind their hands, faces red from holding in their gleeful shouts. Now, I know they know. Why else would they act this way? Even when I didn’t wear leggings to cover my ghostly pale deformed legs they never payed me this much attention.

I’m scared.

But they don’t let up. The class is told to jog. I’m aware of everything. Every giggle. Every snicker. Every cough. I can feel every part of my body, working together to betray me. My legs shake as I jog, moving disjointedly as I attempt to compose myself. My arms, they have nothing to do. Nothing to do and no where to put them. I need air, I’m breathing with my mouth open. I’m pretty sure people aren’t supposed to have their mouth open when breathing… My chest bounces uncomfortably up and down. I know I already must look like some bimbo circus clown, but now I’m also know as the cutter. That crazed ugly cutter that’s terrified of her own existence. And no one leaves the class cutter alone. No, they all come up. Make it a contest to see who can get her to show the scars first. Betting on how bad it is. Betting on how many are fresh. Betting on how many are old. Betting what that delicate piece of destroyed flesh must look like.

“Hey hey hey, you’re that girl right?’

Go away.

“Hiiiii, sorry this is like, really really weird but can I see your scars?”

“You want to know how I got these scars?”

 Laughter. “Omg, stop it! No no, this is serious! Stop joking!” More laughter from all around.

Please, I just want to be left alone again…

“Can I see them?”

…No

“Hey, I wanna see!”

No….

“Just once, pleeeeaaaaase?”

No….stop.

“Oh, come on already. You can trust me!”

NO!

“Uh, um...”

“Class! Time to stretch!”

People reluctantly fall away and sort themselves into their respective lines with their coaches. I head back to my spot, too. Thankfully it isn’t as bad here. People still ask, but the coach is nearby so they can’t do very much without alerting him. Although we soon go off to do our designated activities. Away from the closer eye of the teachers I’m again subject to a barrage of questions. Constantly being poked and prodded, never receiving a moment of peace as everyone digs around for a weakness in my defense, hoping to find gold. Sharks, circling around me. Looking for blood.

Class goes on and on. By the time the bell rings I’m so tired I’d forgotten that anything exists outside of this gym. I’d forgotten everything except the need to keep my head down. Keep my head down and remain calm. Keep my head down, and never give in. Never admit what I have done. It’s all I can do not to run away and roll up in a tiny sobbing ball in some forgotten corner of the world. But I can’t just yet.

There might still be people. People that care.

Fool.

There is hope. Right?

What?

You’re level of stupidity has never ceased to amaze me.

I’m right. The rest of the day is no better. If anything, it’s worse.

I notice that in all of my classes everyone seems to be divided into two categories: those who stare, and those who refuse to acknowledge my existence. The latter are taking pains to avoid me. Changing their routes on the way to classes so they don’t coincide with mine, moving their desks away from me as far as they can without drawing the teacher’s attention, turning their heads and looking away when I pass by, and curling their lips up in disgust when my name comes up in the talker’s conversations.

How long will this continue?

Forever.

Stop. I’m being serious. How long will we have to live like this?

…It’s hard to tell.

Huh?

There’s a chance this could blow over, people don’t get any proof so they go off prowling for the next big thing… Bur it’s more likely that they won’t forget. This is a big deal. Some good gossip about the school cutter is priceless, even if they have no base you most likely will be hounded out for the rest of the year- if not longer.

I bet they’ll forget. Right? I mean, I’m only one student…. Right? Right?

For your sake I hope you’re not wrong…

 

But as always, school continues. I’m in pain. So, so much pain. It blinds me, saps my energy. I don’t feel human anymore. I feel as if I’m only a shadow of past existence. I feel incomplete. I feel wrong. So, I cut more. I cut to keep myself grounded. To keep myself from sinking into the depths of oblivion. Again, and again, and again. I cannot make out my arms anymore. All I can see are the scars, and the blood, signifying that I am still alive. But no one notices how their words have affected me. No one connects the dots. Perhaps they don’t want to. It’s more fun to make fun of the school cutter than to understand them. Because if you understand, then you suddenly see this cutter as a person. They are no longer the harmless object to be laughed at, because now that you understand, you can see the pain in their eyes. You can see the hopeless resignation in every breath they take. And that’s no fun. No one wants the game to end. I don’t blame them.

So no one lets up, even after a week. In fact, it’s just the opposite. A few times today people have gone so far as to grab my damaged arms, yanking on their coverings to try and see for themselves the destruction that I’ve wrought. More and more people are avoiding me. More and more people are laughing as I walk the halls. More and more people are noticing my flaws. More, and more, and more, and more. I can’t go unnoticed. All I wish for is the darkness of nonexistence. All I wish is for my pain to finally retreat to the solidarity and comfort of the end.

Don’t forget. This is what you wanted. You wish to be noticed and this is what happens.

But, I didn’t mean like this…

Dumbass, haven’t you learned yet? This is the only attention people like us will ever receive. You’re not pretty or funny or graceful or charming, so why should anyone care about you or your feelings? Haven’t you noticed? Only the pretty get the privilege of happiness. Only the pretty can succeed. Only the pretty can ever amount to anything.

…Maybe…

Just continue already. You made the decision to tell someone. You made that choice. So now, you’re going to live with it. You are going to live and suffer and deal with what you did.

I’ll try.

No, you won’t just try, you will.

 

But…it’s easier said than done. Some people follow me in the halls now, not speaking just…following. Others whisper ‘cutter, cutter,’ before collapsing into fits of howling tears and laughter. No teachers notice. No students intervene. Nobody stops. I’m still all alone, like I always have been, but somehow it’s worse than before. Before there was some glimmer of hope, however tiny. A small kernel of desperate belief that I just had to wait until I found a friend, that there really was someone out there who would accept me. Now, it’s fading. I can’t see that light. All I see is shadow. The razor sharp teeth of a dark beast, swallowing me whole. I’m drowning in it. I’m drowning. My body is painfully wasting away, disintegrating in the acid of my beast’s stomach. How can I get away? How do I kill this beast without killing myself? How do I escape my own mind? How do I escape my own surroundings? How do I escape my own fate? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m so tired. Even if I knew the way out, I don’t think I have the energy to try. 

There is no one who doesn’t notice me. When I go to my locker I find a knife, covered in blood. No note, no attachment, just that single bloody knife. I hear giggles from down the hall, scampering feet as the gang shushes each other. I’m ashamed. Ashamed at what I’ve become. At who I am. Like always, I’m a disgrace. My very existence is a mistake. I can’t take this. I start walking, moving quickly towards the one place in this building I know is safe.

Just what do you think you’re doing?

Being safe.

Excuse me?

Being safe. I have to get back to safety.

No, you don’t. What you have to do is face your mistakes. Tolerate them and turn the other cheek. You have to suffer. You have to pay for your sins.

NO! I can’t anymore!

Yes, you can!

NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! STOP IT!

Come on, stop being such a whiny little piece of shit! I’m tired of this act you’re constantly putting on! It sickens me!

NO! I CAN’T! I’M AT MY LIMIT! I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS! EVERYONE HATES ME MORE THAN EVER! I’M COMPLETELY ALONE! NO ONE CARES, THEY JUST LAUGH! NO ONE CARES! NO ONE CARES! I’VE BECOME A LAUGHING STOCK AND NO ONE CARES ABOUT HOW I MIGHT FEEL! THEY DON’T SEE ME AS A PERSON IN PAIN THEY SEE ME AS AN OPPORTUNITY FOR A GOOD LAUGH! NO. ONE. CARES! I CAN’T TAKE THIS! IT’S TOO MUCH!

I’m so so scared. And it hurts so much right now… It hurts and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this better. I’m miserable here. I just can’t keep going on like this. I’m done trying to fight. I just want this to end. I want peace.

…Okay. We’ll stay here for the day, just camp out in this stall until it’s time to leave. When we get home we can do…something. We’ll fix this, okay? Don’t worry, you don’t have to fight anymore. It’ll be over soon.

I’m glad.

I continue sitting there, in this lone bathroom stall. My memory flashes back, back to when I first hid out like this. Back in sixth grade, what I would often do. I remember my notes. I remember them as clear as the days I wrote them.

Hello there. I hope you see. I hope that you’re finally paying attention, now that you see my dead body right in front of you. You nor anyone else has ever really cared about me or my feelings before, so I can understand it may come as a bit of a shock to learn that it actually hurts my feelings when you say mean things about me. Funny, huh? If you want someone to name, blame Makenzie, Connor, Anna, and Ava. You were the ones who hurt me the most, so I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re proud of yourselves. Goodbye you horrible, horrible people.”

“Sorry about this. I know cleaning up after my death will be very inconvenient for you, so again, sorry. But I was in a lot of pain. More than you can imagine. The people at school hurt me. I realized just how insignificant I really was. I looked back on my short life so far and through newly opened eyes noticed all of the truths of my past. I realized that I wasn’t loved by people, I was ridiculed by them, and I was too wrapped up in my delusions to notice. But now I see. And it hurts. You hurt me badly. What you did broke my heart every time. What you did made me cower in fear in my own room. You left me alone. You left me alone to deal with my life. You only reacted in anger when I struggled to find purchase in my troubles. You didn’t help me out of my pit of despair but instead stomped on the hand that was hanging onto the ledge of freedom. Please treat your other child better. Please do not harm my sibling like you harmed me. Goodbye, I truly wish that I could have come to love you, mom.”

“My death was the result of bullying. Put an end to it please. Make sure that no one else ever has to feel like me. Please make sure no one has to feel this pain. Please don’t let the pretty people continue in their reign of cruel superiority. Make sure that this never happens again.”

I don’t regret writing them. My only regret was not having the courage to end my misery sooner. I thought I knew pain then. I thought that that was the worst it could get. I wish I could go back to my self from back then. Tell them that it does get worse. That they need to save themselves, spare them the pain of having to go through this. Of having to live their life feeling so helplessly hurt and alone. There are so many things I would warn myself of, if only I could.

But I know now. I’m not so naïve anymore. It’s taken me this much to realize my fate, but having to suffer so much is what I deserve. It’s my due payment for continuously being so blinded and dull.

I wait all day. Through all of my classes, through lunch, through every part of the day. People will notice my absence, but they’ll be disappointed, not worried. Disappointed that they can’t whisper to their friends a new joke about the way I walk. Disappointed that I won’t be there so they can show off to their friends as they come up to me and ask what I’m hiding. No one will worry. No one cares that way. I don’t blame them, I never can.

Some people notice me as I finally make my retreat out of the bathroom stall, but it’s a Monday, so most are too busy complaining to their friend groups to pay much attention to me. I’m glad. I manage to make it too my bus without alerting too many people. I’m one of the only high schoolers on my bus, and news hasn’t spread out to the middle school yet, so I’m safe for now. Although I don’t know how long this temporary safety will last. Lots of people in the high school have siblings in the lower grades, meaning some are bound to find out. And good gossip travels almost impossibly fast.  

 Today, I let my silent tears stream down my face freely. I stare out the window, seeing the passing surroundings, the ghost of my face leaving a permanent imprint of it all. I wish it could go away. The homes the bus passes disgust me, and I feel a hot, ugly hatred of the good looking children exiting the bus to enter their huge homes, placed artfully on the lavishly designed neighborhood. I feel like throwing up as I see all of the kids leaving for home, dressed out in the most popular clothing, looking happy, as if they don’t have a single care in the world. These are the people who are loved. These are the types who look down upon me. They are superior. And I hate them for it.

The bus clanks and rumbles and jostles, giving me bruises as my limp body gives in to the motion. After what seems like an eternity it’s finally my turn to get off and walk through the doors of my home. As I step down, off, and walk away it seems like I can still feel the effects of the noisy bus, vibrating my bones. Halfway to my back porch I collapse on the lawn. I lay on my back, staring upwards at the clouded sky. I let the cool breeze wash over me, bringing with it the scents of the untamed wilderness up above, of the freedom of a sky devoid of human life. I long to roam there, to escape and dance among the stars. It begins to rain and still laying there I let the rain drops stream down my face, combining with my tears and cooling my heated face. I rise to my feet before I get too soaked, walking the rest of the way to the house and stepping inside, making a beeline to my room.

My clothes peel off with the squelch of damp fabric, finally free from my sticky wet body. I look in the mirror at my naked form, finding each and every flaw. I imagine myself as a prettier version of me. I imagine a life without my flaws, how much easier life would be. I trace all of my scars. They’re all over me; wrists, arms, stomach, legs, thighs, chest. I’m ruined. I’m ruined but I know I deserve it. I’m ruined and I like it.

I sit through dinner with my family, staring off into the distance. I’m screaming inside. My entire body is on fire, my thoughts are a rapid back and forth torrent of insults and curses. It’s tearing my brain to shreds, physically ripping it apart at the seams. My heart is racing a million miles an hour, completely uncontrollable. Every single cell within me is searching for a way out, pushing to break free. I’m hyper aware of everything around me. The sounds of mouths chewing and the slick, disgusting sounds of someone swallowing, a tap of a finger, a curve of the lips. I’m so aware, and yet so distanced. It seems like this isn’t real, like I’m watching from the outside. But that’s for the best, because if I’m not here, then they cannot pick up on my anger, on my fear and my pain. I sit this way though dinner, barely keeping my emotions contained No one around me will ever know how hard I’ve always tried to keep everything from spilling out. How hard I’ve tried to keep myself contained inside this tiny body, containing everything I am within barely one and a half layers of easily destroyed flesh. For the last time, I manage to keep my composure. Through dinner, as I clean up, all the way until I’m back safe in my room. I wait until around nine at night until I cross over to my desk, staring numbly at a piece of parchment, placed delicately on top. I begin to write, crafting the words I love so much into one last piece.

“Hello. If you’re reading this you most likely have already discovered my dead body. All I can really say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I was not strong enough. I’m sorry that even though I did not have any form of anxiety or depression that I was too cowardly to tolerate my own life and what it had become. I’m sorry that I was not stronger, or smarter. But please, do not feel like a failure. There is honestly nothing you could have done to prevent this. I was doomed from the start. I never felt as if I belonged in this world. I was always an outsider. No one really enjoyed my company, not even you or the rest of the family. I was always an outcast - and it hurt. I was constantly in so much unbelievable pain. You’ll never know how terrifying the simple act of getting out of bed was for me. You’ll never know how my body never felt right, how every move I made felt so wrong. You’ll never know how long I’ve been wanting to do this. My skin bears the scars of how hard I’ve tried to resist this bliss of ending. My lone reason for suffering for so long here on this earth was to atone for my sins of brashly comparing myself to the others out there who have truly suffered.

So, I apologize for not being strong. I apologize for the fact that you’ve had to raise a wimpy brat like me, who cost so much energy and money for you to maintain. I apologize for ever being born in the first place. My last request is for you not to feel bad. It is not your fault. It is mine. Goodbye for the last time.”

The note was finished. I went over to my waiting escape. I took the knife for the last time, locating the two long blue lines and cut vertically down them, digging in deeper and deeper. At this point, I was beyond physical pain of any kind. I could feel nothing but my body growing steadily lighter, the voices in my head finally quieting. I was so, so sad. I didn’t want this, but what else was there? There was only suffering in my future had I continued living. I look back on my life and a fresh well of terror and stifling emotion comes crashing over me. How deceived I once was by my own peers. How I truly believed them. How I couldn’t take the truth. I flash to the notes, the bruises, the crushing weight of reality, slowly pressing down upon the walls around my heart. This is better, I think. I can feel the physical ache of loneliness enclosing my soul.

If only somebody had noticed. If only someone, somewhere would have seen. If only I wouldn’t have been left to suffer all alone, going through everything with only my own thoughts for company. I’ve never had anyone who stood beside me, only ever people who pretended before making their jokes and rejecting me for a final laugh. Why had no one seen? Why would no one answer my constant pleas for help? I don’t want to die. But it’s the only way to escape this nightmare.

My final thoughts are of me, desperately running after the ghosts of smiling people. I’m chasing after the friends I never had. Tears trickle down as the last of my blood trickles out.

 “Hey.”

“Uh, hey.”

“Is everything alright? You’ve been looking kind of down lately.”

“I’m fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

END


© Copyright 2018 Jay Rose. All rights reserved.

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