I Suck At Living
Chapter 2
Every time I've cut, I take a sliver of my life away, a sliver of my pain away. Problems temporarily disinigrate into the raging black hole of my life. Just dust in the wind, it doesn't really matter. But it does. It does.
I ram the sharpened paper clip into the locked door. Hmm, not locked anymore. It clicks open, and I slip inside, a shadow in the silence. The room is filled with the stern yet light sound of the rain. It's starting to let up.
I slide down the wall tiredly. Tired of it all. I study the pocketknife. It's black and gray and saturated with shame. It begs me to glide it across my wrist, to feel the red wash over my arm. Bathe away my dilemmas in a sickly odor of iron. It opens before me and I outline the edge with my eyes. I pull down the wristband, and look at the thin, deep red line. The knife seeps into my skin and I let out a shudder, head ans heart throbbing in sequnce. Feel it, feel it. My breathing gets heavier and I start to pant. It comes back for a second slice and it digs in search of pain. Blood seeps out of the wound like several strings of tears. I lick my wrist clean. It seems disgusting, but that's the only way to make sure there is no evidence of blood on my clothes or in this small, terrifying room. Being claustrophobic sucks. Another reason why there is never a fearfree moment in my life.
I answer to more of the blade's calls. When it starts to get dark, I make sure there isn't even a quirk sized blood drop and head to my place of living, ridden with shame and apathy.
My eyes dart in all directions wildly. I can't stop tapping my fingers into my leg. When the fuck did winter get so hot? Tears sting my eyes and I can't seem to get to my living space fast enough. Need to go, need to go. The world is caving in and becoming smaller. It must be 100 degrees here! I'm about to die. I feel my legs run faster and faster.
Finally, I get to my living space. I finger through my pockets as quickly as I can, and...Shit! Yes! I found the Goddamn key. Open this mother fucker... My face red as hell, I run to my room. I slam the door open and closed as fast as I can and huddle in the corner of my room. Block out any thoughts and concentrate on breathing, I instruct myself. I wish I could bury myself in the wall. Just die and not have to worry about anything. Tears form in a stain on my shirt. I listen to the struggle for breath.
I sit here for what seems like eternity, trying to catch a pattern. After a long while, my breath slows down and I can get my pathetic self off the floor. The house is silent. Where's my mother? Haven't seen her in a while, can't remember when... I stand up slowly, legs wobbly like when my mom came back drunk at 3:30 last Saturday. I remember it with unusal clarity...
(Author's Note: Flashback) It was another wasted night, stuck in this freezing room staring out the cracked glass window. I, like any other night, couldn't sleep to save my life (lke I'd want to save it anyway). The deep midnight sky I longed to gaze at was no match to the bordering city's lights. You could smell the smoke coming from various other homes, the stench intoxicating my lungs. My mother was at another "convention". In other words, a drug party. Try and hide it, will you? Like I cared.
I heard a rattle coming from the chain link fence. My eyes darted toward the disturbance, only to find my mother, zigzagging in all directions in the street. Her eyes looked heavy and clouded over, like a humid, lazy day in the midst of August. She swayed, leaned on the fence for support, and spilled a mess of white and brown liquid and the remanants of pill capsules onto the cracked street. I clung to my knees and buried my head in my arms, wishing it would all disappear, but knowing it wouldn't. It was my unspoken duty to take care of her. I rose from the undead and walked dreadfully out the door. Even as I approached her and took hold of her, she seemed to be in a distant world. I instinctivly looked around. All matter seemed to bend inward toward me, as if I was the eye of a tornado and everything around me was getting sucked in. I hurried her in, turning my head when she even breathed out the slightest bit. That vile sour acidic odor permeated the night's neutral air and poisoned it, like she did with my life.
As soon as she found the couch, after tripping over the table and knocking the lamp over, she crashed and didn't move. Sighing loudly, (not that anyone could hear me), I absentmindedly grabbed the blankets out of her room and threw them over her. Emptiness once again filled the living space. There stood an urge, an overwhelming temptation to let the blade dominate me. Submit, submit to your uttermost desire, it beckoned. Not being a fit minority, I gave in and let the desposable razor work the tears, in form of blood, out of me. (End Flashback)
I ram the sharpened paper clip into the locked door. Hmm, not locked anymore. It clicks open, and I slip inside, a shadow in the silence. The room is filled with the stern yet light sound of the rain. It's starting to let up.
I slide down the wall tiredly. Tired of it all. I study the pocketknife. It's black and gray and saturated with shame. It begs me to glide it across my wrist, to feel the red wash over my arm. Bathe away my dilemmas in a sickly odor of iron. It opens before me and I outline the edge with my eyes. I pull down the wristband, and look at the thin, deep red line. The knife seeps into my skin and I let out a shudder, head ans heart throbbing in sequnce. Feel it, feel it. My breathing gets heavier and I start to pant. It comes back for a second slice and it digs in search of pain. Blood seeps out of the wound like several strings of tears. I lick my wrist clean. It seems disgusting, but that's the only way to make sure there is no evidence of blood on my clothes or in this small, terrifying room. Being claustrophobic sucks. Another reason why there is never a fearfree moment in my life.
I answer to more of the blade's calls. When it starts to get dark, I make sure there isn't even a quirk sized blood drop and head to my place of living, ridden with shame and apathy.
My eyes dart in all directions wildly. I can't stop tapping my fingers into my leg. When the fuck did winter get so hot? Tears sting my eyes and I can't seem to get to my living space fast enough. Need to go, need to go. The world is caving in and becoming smaller. It must be 100 degrees here! I'm about to die. I feel my legs run faster and faster.
Finally, I get to my living space. I finger through my pockets as quickly as I can, and...Shit! Yes! I found the Goddamn key. Open this mother fucker... My face red as hell, I run to my room. I slam the door open and closed as fast as I can and huddle in the corner of my room. Block out any thoughts and concentrate on breathing, I instruct myself. I wish I could bury myself in the wall. Just die and not have to worry about anything. Tears form in a stain on my shirt. I listen to the struggle for breath.
I sit here for what seems like eternity, trying to catch a pattern. After a long while, my breath slows down and I can get my pathetic self off the floor. The house is silent. Where's my mother? Haven't seen her in a while, can't remember when... I stand up slowly, legs wobbly like when my mom came back drunk at 3:30 last Saturday. I remember it with unusal clarity...
(Author's Note: Flashback) It was another wasted night, stuck in this freezing room staring out the cracked glass window. I, like any other night, couldn't sleep to save my life (lke I'd want to save it anyway). The deep midnight sky I longed to gaze at was no match to the bordering city's lights. You could smell the smoke coming from various other homes, the stench intoxicating my lungs. My mother was at another "convention". In other words, a drug party. Try and hide it, will you? Like I cared.
I heard a rattle coming from the chain link fence. My eyes darted toward the disturbance, only to find my mother, zigzagging in all directions in the street. Her eyes looked heavy and clouded over, like a humid, lazy day in the midst of August. She swayed, leaned on the fence for support, and spilled a mess of white and brown liquid and the remanants of pill capsules onto the cracked street. I clung to my knees and buried my head in my arms, wishing it would all disappear, but knowing it wouldn't. It was my unspoken duty to take care of her. I rose from the undead and walked dreadfully out the door. Even as I approached her and took hold of her, she seemed to be in a distant world. I instinctivly looked around. All matter seemed to bend inward toward me, as if I was the eye of a tornado and everything around me was getting sucked in. I hurried her in, turning my head when she even breathed out the slightest bit. That vile sour acidic odor permeated the night's neutral air and poisoned it, like she did with my life.
As soon as she found the couch, after tripping over the table and knocking the lamp over, she crashed and didn't move. Sighing loudly, (not that anyone could hear me), I absentmindedly grabbed the blankets out of her room and threw them over her. Emptiness once again filled the living space. There stood an urge, an overwhelming temptation to let the blade dominate me. Submit, submit to your uttermost desire, it beckoned. Not being a fit minority, I gave in and let the desposable razor work the tears, in form of blood, out of me. (End Flashback)