On becoming an adult.

Reads: 319  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short non-story about a particuluary traumatic night that occured recently, and how I am choosing to deal with it is to completely externalise my locus of control, 'cuz I'm an adult now and I can do whatever the hell irresponsible crap I want.

I know I should speak to people about this but I can’t, I can’t because it’s not in my head. The words to make a conversation are not in my head, right now all that’s in my head is a quiet murmur about it. A flat line that occasionally spikes with emotion before returning to a platonic state. All day I can hear this murmur, and I listen for words but there are none, sometimes I think they might be there, and I prick up my ears and listen, but they notice and they silence each other. All day. But not all night. At night, the near silence crescendos into a cacophony of screaming. I lie in the darkness perfectly still surrounded by writhing bodies screaming in unfathomable language. Sometimes they touch my skin, they are cold and wet. Not wet enough to leave residue, but a thin layer of sweat, enough to numb the skin where they connect. Flinching away does nothing. If anything it makes things worse, I’ll jerk my arm away, saved from one body, but in that action I’ll touch three or four more bodies. They don’t like to be touched. The screaming.

Ironically, in these situations all I can think to do to shut them out is to pray. I search for so many solutions, but all I come up with is crying out to a God I don’t believe in. I beg and barter, I clasp at nothing, clinging to fiction to save me. My angels should be with me, my angels are around my bed, my guardian angel. I’ve always had angels. I did, didn’t I? When I staggered home at night, too weak to fight anymore, the only things protecting me were my angels. I must have angels. I must have had angels. Where are my angels? They weren’t here last night.

 Maybe they’ll come back tonight and sit with me while I sleep, replace the stony claws with soft, talcum hands. They’ll rub the base of my neck with warm oils, removing the traces of the punctures from last night. They’ll plant small roses in the fetid bed of my cheeks as though it’s the purest of soil. If my angels hear people come knocking they won’t let them in, they won’t even blink. Instead they’ll make sure I don’t wake, make sure I don’t even move, they’ll stand around me all night, never changing, never bored, never wishing for me to wake up. They won’t admire me, nor will they enjoy my presence and revel in the delight of being allowed to see me. My angels don’t love me, my angels protect me. Where the hell are my goddamn angels?


Submitted: April 09, 2012

© Copyright 2022 egog0. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

More Religion and Spirituality Short Stories

Other Content by egog0

Short Story / Religion and Spirituality