Death in Hiding

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


 

When will you finally erase every trace of your misfortunes? Can you even call them misfortunes, or do they amount to nothing more than the essence of an eccentric teenager, afraid to lose his edge? Is your mental health really the problem, or are you just a terrible human being? Yes, that must be it - you are defined by your mistakes. You carry mountains upon your shoulders just for the sake of carrying them. Even your own shadow seems to mock your existence. It tells you that you will always be incapable of seeing life’s beauties, that all those beauties are just vain and empty. He points fingers and mocks your superiority complex. But then at the same time, it mocks you for your cowardice, your desire to tear yourself into a million pieces before others. It says...it says that even if you take minor steps toward a better future, you will still be a man with knives strapped to his arms, needle marks covering his pale skin - so stay away from others and save them a world of pain. Stay away from others because you know that regardless of whatever changes that may occur, you are rotten to the core. Even if you wake up tomorrow and remember all the good things you have done, just dismiss those accomplishments and focus on the negative instead. You are defined, after all, by your mistakes. Throw yourself into a cage and lock the door. Then when people ask why you’re not stepping outside, just swallow the key and shoot yourself in the head. Keep watching others learn and evolve while you crush yourself beneath the weight of a thousand unrealized dreams. The only word in your vocabulary needs to be “Sorry”. You must apologize to others for your existence because you amount to nothing. Your soul is like a bottomless well - the good things in life will fall into that well one by one, free falling, gaining speed and malicious momentum while never reaching the bottom. That is who you are - just an empty vessel, always incomplete, always unhappy, always the carrier of empty hopes. You must perfect the art of self-flagellation, but must do so in the comfort of your own tiny corner, for you do not want to broadcast your self-loathing. Wait, you seem to have done that anyways. Look at how many people you have hurt. Look at how ugly your soul is. Look at how all the beauties of the world pass you by because you have only learned to see ugliness. You are despicable. You are human. You are not human. You are death itself. So stay away from others and bring destruction only upon yourself, until nothing is left of you but a skeleton, pathetic, a waste of space, and your deathbed will be one made of empty beer bottles, and you will be surrounded by no one but the ghost of every person you have hurt, all pointing a gun to your head, only to realize that you are not even worth a bullet. 

 

And then watch all the ghosts from the past disappear, one by one, just as you, too, disappear from their minds. 

 


Submitted: June 20, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Mahan1372. All rights reserved.

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