I Suck At Living
Chapter 3
Nightmares tiptoe into my conscience. I'm running into a cemetery, ghosts chasing me. The scene seems to get smaller with each step. The strong sense that I am being chased runs through my body. My eyes dart. Suddenly I am awake once more, tears streaming down my face and my chest feeling like cinderblock that is denying me air.
Most people stop crying when they've gained hope in a situation or assure themselves everything will be alright. Crying for me stops when there are no more tears left.
Staring at the digital clock, I watch the numbers change and seconds, minutes, hours pass. My distended eyes recede over time, but I still feel the ghostly presence of the ice cold tears on my sunken in cheeks. A full on migraine pulses. Pain only escapes one way: my bloody secret.
The straight razor steals my soul, not that I'm willing to keep it. I watch the razor dirty over time with a rust colored coating. I indulge in the fact that it always seems as if time has completely stopped when the razor nips and is at my will to form it's path. Over time, the stained and disturbing treausure that is my razor blade grows heavier and heavier. My eyes develop a fog that becomes stronger with every drop of blood that trickles gracefully out. And it feels, feels so, beaaauutttiiffulll... A whirling black hole drinks my consciousness and I fall into a deep, heavy sleep.
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School is just another nightmare, filled with darting eyes, smirks, labels, lectures, and marked in red, beautiful blood red... Fuck, all my papers were painted with "D"s and "C"s, except for when luck flowed my way and I got a "B". Though I never appeal to my work, never will. The teacher must have extremely low standards. Or felt like a prosthetic grade would lift me out of my pathetic state. I don't even see why I bother coming. "Illegal" is a term I've seemed to glance over with more and more ease as time dreadfully ambles by. From the time I was six and started reading, my mother forced me to five-finger-discount her Sudafed.
"Just cause!", she'd rant if I'd question it. Of course when your that age you're not supposed to know anything about coke in greedy exchange for supplies in the making of meth.
Yes, I knew all about the buoyant bleached dust. But when I was five and younger, "cocaine" was just another word I hadn't a clue the meaning of. Once mistaked for sugar by me, as moronic as I am.
My way of getting food when my mother was inept was eating whatever I could find. Finding a sugar jar was like a crook finding a whole damn box of diamonds on his way home, so I didn't question the straw next to it or the lines made hastily on the crinkled aluminum sheet. The exercrable flavor made my eyes water and my nose crinkle in abhorrence. I willingly vomitted. I could feel my face turn as cool as liquid nitrogen as my weak body helplessly slid to the floor. It took a minute or two for the nausea and lightheadedness to wear off. When it did, I threw newspapers on the floor, trying to conceal the vomit to one small area. After about a half an hour I managed to wipe the pungent odor away.
What a memory to start the morning. I grab onto the cliff of reality and pull myself out of the daydream. Where am I?
''Despite the Mayan's protests, the Spanish...", I hear. A television glows over about twenty-five other heads, all who are either whispering to each other or looking at the television with mild interest. Social Studies. I dettach my face from my binder and tried to pay attention.
Who the fuck are the Mayans? Whatever. I thought apathetically. I stared blankly toward the screen, as if I might be seen not paying attention. Everyone gave up hope the first day kindergarten.
Most people stop crying when they've gained hope in a situation or assure themselves everything will be alright. Crying for me stops when there are no more tears left.
Staring at the digital clock, I watch the numbers change and seconds, minutes, hours pass. My distended eyes recede over time, but I still feel the ghostly presence of the ice cold tears on my sunken in cheeks. A full on migraine pulses. Pain only escapes one way: my bloody secret.
The straight razor steals my soul, not that I'm willing to keep it. I watch the razor dirty over time with a rust colored coating. I indulge in the fact that it always seems as if time has completely stopped when the razor nips and is at my will to form it's path. Over time, the stained and disturbing treausure that is my razor blade grows heavier and heavier. My eyes develop a fog that becomes stronger with every drop of blood that trickles gracefully out. And it feels, feels so, beaaauutttiiffulll... A whirling black hole drinks my consciousness and I fall into a deep, heavy sleep.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
School is just another nightmare, filled with darting eyes, smirks, labels, lectures, and marked in red, beautiful blood red... Fuck, all my papers were painted with "D"s and "C"s, except for when luck flowed my way and I got a "B". Though I never appeal to my work, never will. The teacher must have extremely low standards. Or felt like a prosthetic grade would lift me out of my pathetic state. I don't even see why I bother coming. "Illegal" is a term I've seemed to glance over with more and more ease as time dreadfully ambles by. From the time I was six and started reading, my mother forced me to five-finger-discount her Sudafed.
"Just cause!", she'd rant if I'd question it. Of course when your that age you're not supposed to know anything about coke in greedy exchange for supplies in the making of meth.
Yes, I knew all about the buoyant bleached dust. But when I was five and younger, "cocaine" was just another word I hadn't a clue the meaning of. Once mistaked for sugar by me, as moronic as I am.
My way of getting food when my mother was inept was eating whatever I could find. Finding a sugar jar was like a crook finding a whole damn box of diamonds on his way home, so I didn't question the straw next to it or the lines made hastily on the crinkled aluminum sheet. The exercrable flavor made my eyes water and my nose crinkle in abhorrence. I willingly vomitted. I could feel my face turn as cool as liquid nitrogen as my weak body helplessly slid to the floor. It took a minute or two for the nausea and lightheadedness to wear off. When it did, I threw newspapers on the floor, trying to conceal the vomit to one small area. After about a half an hour I managed to wipe the pungent odor away.
What a memory to start the morning. I grab onto the cliff of reality and pull myself out of the daydream. Where am I?
''Despite the Mayan's protests, the Spanish...", I hear. A television glows over about twenty-five other heads, all who are either whispering to each other or looking at the television with mild interest. Social Studies. I dettach my face from my binder and tried to pay attention.
Who the fuck are the Mayans? Whatever. I thought apathetically. I stared blankly toward the screen, as if I might be seen not paying attention. Everyone gave up hope the first day kindergarten.