More Like A Relapse
Don't Be Weak
Even if I say
It'll be alright
Still I hear you say
You want to end your life
I breathed. That’s all I could do. I breathed. Filled my lungs and emptied my lungs. Just breathe. No, no, don’t cry, don’t cry. Don’t be weak. Shut up and swallow it, damn it. Swallow it.
I rushed into a dressing room and locked the door. I could hardly walk, my heart hurt too much to muster any energy to my limbs. It hurt so very much deep in the chasm I called a chest. It was a dull pain that swelled and dissipated with each beat. It grew, then faded; grew and faded; grew and faded. I was sick of it. Stop beating. Stop hurting, heart.
I was never good enough for him. Nothing ever pleased him. I tried, tried so hard to make peace with him, but he never stopped.
I looked up into the room’s full-length mirror mounted on the wall. I could see the bruises and scars. I hated those scars. Everyday they mocked me, laughed at me, screamed at me and reminded me every living breathing second of the life I loathed. They made me ugly. I was ugly. Ugly ugly ugly. Too skinny, too fat, too unattractive, too stupid, too lazy. It didn’t matter the circumstance, something was wrong with me. He beat me because he knew I was as screwed up as him. Shut up, fuckface, don’t try to make sense out of this. Remember what happened last time you tried to make sense out of things? Shut up, shut up, shut up,
“SHUT UP!”
I stepped forward and threw my fist deep into the mirror and the wall behind it. My reflection shattered into a million pieces, and the plaster wall scraped up to my wrist. I retracted my limb and looked at the blood, but my vision began to go bad while a stream of uncontrolled tears broke free of my eyes.
No. You can’t cry. Don’t be weak, you shitty fuckface.
Why are you being weak? WHY ARE YOU BEING WEAK?
If he sees what you’ve done, he’ll kill you, fucking kill you.
I could hear a knock on the door behind me, and the handle swiveling vainly against the lock,
“Hello? Are you alright in there? Are you okay?”
Too skinny, too fat, too unattractive, too stupid, too lazy. Too weak. Shut up. Shut up. Stop crying, suck it up and move the hell on, fuckface. It’s nothing new. Swallow it like everyone else does. I couldn’t answer the voice. My throat wasn’t working, clogged from the knot that filled it. The mirror was in pieces; the many little reflections on the floor were more unbearable than one large one on the wall. I stomped on them, crushed them with my boots. Demolish the reflection, demolish me, demolish everyone, everyone, EVERYONE.
I spat on the little pieces crushed into the old stained carpet. I took the pieces in my hand and crushed them into smaller pieces. My hand was pouring blood but I deserved it. I couldn’t even feel what I deserved, but I deserved it all.
Now the door was rattling on its hinges from the fist on the other side banging it heavily.
A new voice called,
“Come out here, boy!”
I fell apart.
My eyes locked onto the threatening door and my face contorted into something similar to a smile, but it was anything except. No… he can’t find out. He’ll kill me. Fucking kill me. Rip me beat me… not again. No no no no.
“C’mon out here, I’m not going to hurt you!”
My heartbeat spiked and I could feel it pounding against my chest.
No no no. He can’t hurt me… he won’t… but he will. He will he will he fucking will. Take me home strip me down beat me tie me up cut me hit me hurt me burn me.
I couldn’t breathe. The knot had clogged my entire throat.
I couldn’t breathe… my heart hurt so much.
I looked around frantically, urgently. Another way out out out away and away from this place, go somewhere else far away from him. Far and away so he can’t hurt me.
The only things that were even in the aged dressing room were the walls, a chair, the pieces of the mirror, and writing on the walls. The carpet was decorated in droplets of my blood.
There was nothing, nothing. Goddamnit. No way out, no way out. Trapped, little child, trapped like a little child in your own room with a monster in your closet and under your bed and in your head. Trapped and the door is banging and rattling and there’s no way out. No way out. Wake up, little child, wake up. It’s just a nightmare just a nightmare you’ve come to know as life.
End. Your. Life.
“Where’s the key to this room?!” I could hear the voice scream, outraged and exasperated.
My body began to shake, overwhelmed by my heartache heart and I fell against the wall, sobbing quietly and taking in ragged breaths. My hands were already cut and bleeding from the pieces of what use to be myself. I held them up and they, too, were experiencing tremors. But it wasn’t from blood loss, and it wasn’t from shock.
End. Your. Life.
I stared up at a group of phrases written as graffiti on the wall across from me. I was shaking. I was scared. Terrified. Fucking terrified. I was bleeding on the floor in a sea of shattered remains and I was waiting to die, either by my own hand or by his.
I wouldn’t give him the pleasure. For everything he had stolen from me, he would not take this.
I looked for the longest shard of glass and held it in a ruby red-streaked hand and held it to my throat and I breathed. It came and it came, pouring and flowing and gushing.
But it also went, away away and far far away.
You’re safe now, fuckface.
You’re safe, little child.
You are safe.
***
An officer burst through the door once an employee of the clothing store unlocked the dressing room. The policeman froze in his steps under the threshold, horror gripping him by the throat.
“Oh, Jesus…”
His hands fumbled for his radio to report the Jack the Ripper-like scene, but he did so in vain. He paused when he caught sight of the boy’s open eyes, staring vacantly at the graffiti-covered wall across from the massacred body.
Now and again we try
To just stay alive
Maybe we'll turn it all around
'Cause it's not too late
It's never too late
It'll be alright
Still I hear you say
You want to end your life
I breathed. That’s all I could do. I breathed. Filled my lungs and emptied my lungs. Just breathe. No, no, don’t cry, don’t cry. Don’t be weak. Shut up and swallow it, damn it. Swallow it.
I rushed into a dressing room and locked the door. I could hardly walk, my heart hurt too much to muster any energy to my limbs. It hurt so very much deep in the chasm I called a chest. It was a dull pain that swelled and dissipated with each beat. It grew, then faded; grew and faded; grew and faded. I was sick of it. Stop beating. Stop hurting, heart.
I was never good enough for him. Nothing ever pleased him. I tried, tried so hard to make peace with him, but he never stopped.
I looked up into the room’s full-length mirror mounted on the wall. I could see the bruises and scars. I hated those scars. Everyday they mocked me, laughed at me, screamed at me and reminded me every living breathing second of the life I loathed. They made me ugly. I was ugly. Ugly ugly ugly. Too skinny, too fat, too unattractive, too stupid, too lazy. It didn’t matter the circumstance, something was wrong with me. He beat me because he knew I was as screwed up as him. Shut up, fuckface, don’t try to make sense out of this. Remember what happened last time you tried to make sense out of things? Shut up, shut up, shut up,
“SHUT UP!”
I stepped forward and threw my fist deep into the mirror and the wall behind it. My reflection shattered into a million pieces, and the plaster wall scraped up to my wrist. I retracted my limb and looked at the blood, but my vision began to go bad while a stream of uncontrolled tears broke free of my eyes.
No. You can’t cry. Don’t be weak, you shitty fuckface.
Why are you being weak? WHY ARE YOU BEING WEAK?
If he sees what you’ve done, he’ll kill you, fucking kill you.
I could hear a knock on the door behind me, and the handle swiveling vainly against the lock,
“Hello? Are you alright in there? Are you okay?”
Too skinny, too fat, too unattractive, too stupid, too lazy. Too weak. Shut up. Shut up. Stop crying, suck it up and move the hell on, fuckface. It’s nothing new. Swallow it like everyone else does. I couldn’t answer the voice. My throat wasn’t working, clogged from the knot that filled it. The mirror was in pieces; the many little reflections on the floor were more unbearable than one large one on the wall. I stomped on them, crushed them with my boots. Demolish the reflection, demolish me, demolish everyone, everyone, EVERYONE.
I spat on the little pieces crushed into the old stained carpet. I took the pieces in my hand and crushed them into smaller pieces. My hand was pouring blood but I deserved it. I couldn’t even feel what I deserved, but I deserved it all.
Now the door was rattling on its hinges from the fist on the other side banging it heavily.
A new voice called,
“Come out here, boy!”
I fell apart.
My eyes locked onto the threatening door and my face contorted into something similar to a smile, but it was anything except. No… he can’t find out. He’ll kill me. Fucking kill me. Rip me beat me… not again. No no no no.
“C’mon out here, I’m not going to hurt you!”
My heartbeat spiked and I could feel it pounding against my chest.
No no no. He can’t hurt me… he won’t… but he will. He will he will he fucking will. Take me home strip me down beat me tie me up cut me hit me hurt me burn me.
I couldn’t breathe. The knot had clogged my entire throat.
I couldn’t breathe… my heart hurt so much.
I looked around frantically, urgently. Another way out out out away and away from this place, go somewhere else far away from him. Far and away so he can’t hurt me.
The only things that were even in the aged dressing room were the walls, a chair, the pieces of the mirror, and writing on the walls. The carpet was decorated in droplets of my blood.
There was nothing, nothing. Goddamnit. No way out, no way out. Trapped, little child, trapped like a little child in your own room with a monster in your closet and under your bed and in your head. Trapped and the door is banging and rattling and there’s no way out. No way out. Wake up, little child, wake up. It’s just a nightmare just a nightmare you’ve come to know as life.
End. Your. Life.
“Where’s the key to this room?!” I could hear the voice scream, outraged and exasperated.
My body began to shake, overwhelmed by my heartache heart and I fell against the wall, sobbing quietly and taking in ragged breaths. My hands were already cut and bleeding from the pieces of what use to be myself. I held them up and they, too, were experiencing tremors. But it wasn’t from blood loss, and it wasn’t from shock.
End. Your. Life.
I stared up at a group of phrases written as graffiti on the wall across from me. I was shaking. I was scared. Terrified. Fucking terrified. I was bleeding on the floor in a sea of shattered remains and I was waiting to die, either by my own hand or by his.
I wouldn’t give him the pleasure. For everything he had stolen from me, he would not take this.
I looked for the longest shard of glass and held it in a ruby red-streaked hand and held it to my throat and I breathed. It came and it came, pouring and flowing and gushing.
But it also went, away away and far far away.
You’re safe now, fuckface.
You’re safe, little child.
You are safe.
***
An officer burst through the door once an employee of the clothing store unlocked the dressing room. The policeman froze in his steps under the threshold, horror gripping him by the throat.
“Oh, Jesus…”
His hands fumbled for his radio to report the Jack the Ripper-like scene, but he did so in vain. He paused when he caught sight of the boy’s open eyes, staring vacantly at the graffiti-covered wall across from the massacred body.
Now and again we try
To just stay alive
Maybe we'll turn it all around
'Cause it's not too late
It's never too late