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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

I have no idea when I wrote this but it was a good while ago - at least a year ago.

Submitted: July 31, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 31, 2018



I sit and stare at the walls for hours, just let my body flop where it wants. I let the seconds tick by into hours, the work piles up into mountains. I watch as the clock turns over to show yet another wasted minute. What am I looking at, you ask. Paint, I say but you don’t believe me because surely no one could spend so long staring at something so plain.

My mind is tired of seeing so I place my glasses aside but still take in the busy patterns around me; the polka dots, the stripes, the words, pictures, things. I let my head roll back and off over the edge of the bed. My hand dangles into nothingness. And then I am nothing. My mind empties, it numbs, and my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. I am merely an extension of the bed, an indistinguishable lump from the dirty clothes and half-done homework that surrounds me. The dust thickens, and mould grows on the unwashed plates and damp windowsills.

The sun rises, and my alarm goes off. I stand up, bleary-eyed and battle through school with an hour of real sleep and obvious excuses about the cat eating my homework. I’m muted, fading, dying. But no one notices because I’m that quiet kid in the corner who keeps to themself. They only start to see that I’m an empty husk when they ask about the maths work and I say I don’t know. They’re stumped because that’s never happened before. I always know. Knew. I’m an imposter – faking being myself and I’m failing. I’ve been doing this for three years and I’m bored. This skin doesn’t do anything interesting and it’s never motivated enough to do the things it wants to do anyway.

The sun sets, and the colours darken. I examine the same square inch of painted wall that I’ve been looking at for an hour. When will this end? My body crumples and falls like a rag doll and I stare up at the ceiling. My ceiling? I don’t even know anymore because I’m not really here anymore after all. She died with the end of my only relationship and I’ve been empty ever since. I roll over, jam my chin against the bookshelf and contemplate ripping everything to pieces or letting flames envelope my sights. The carpet – a pool of shadow to drown in – just like the dark smudges under my lashes, the bruises that decorate my skin. The devil himself could hide in the slashes of emotion in those eyes, the darkness that lingers below the surface. The deception calls to him and pulls him inside me. I’m not always strong enough to refuse him but now, now I’ve had enough.

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