Care For Me Not, I'll Hurt You Too Much

You walk into a house, having just spent all of your time at a park that you suddenly found yourself in. You walked to a broken swing set abandoned on the far corner of the park and sat down in the only one left intact. It was there that you sat and tried desperately to remember the reason why you forgot everything, and are subconsciously living your life. You never really noticed anything before now. You’ve never seen the faces or heard the names of the people around you. They were just there. You started to see them as just beings there for the entertainment of others, because that’s what you would have seen yourself as as well. You would have seen yourself as simply a being there for the enjoyment of the rest of your Junior class, that would be it if anyone noticed you. So far the faculties were the only one’s to take in your presence as simply more than a seat filler.

You remember little things, like sitting in class…hearing ever word the teacher said, but saying nothing yourself. You remember all your papers coming back with high passing marks even though you don’t remember actually understanding the work you’ve been given. Perhaps, subconsciously you listen to every word and hear every statement, understanding every element and finishing the assignments in record time. While consciously you are empty. You have no expression most of the time and are ignored by all others around you. No one knows who you are, no one really even knows your there. They just see you without actually seeing you.

Except for the art teacher, Ms. Michaels, she seemed to be caring enough. She even asked you about an injury you had that even you didn’t know was there. But how did she know that? How did she know about the small stitched up gash in the side of your head right above your ear that even you didn’t remember? Was she there when it happened to you? You definitely remember her face now. You remember seeing it smiling before and calling your name. You remember still having no expression, you remember feeling nothing except utter embarrassment. You don’t like people staring at you in large crowds, when they do you become embarrassed and feel as if you’re going to hyperventilate. What is that called?

Social Anxiety, a voice inside your head says. Except this voice is much unlike the one you heard yourself use today at lunch. Then again, how would you know what your voice sounded like. It could be raspy, it could be soft like a child’s, it could be loud and obnoxious, it could be squeaky or inaudible. You don’t know. You can’t determine how your voice sounds just by listening to yourself say “Thank you.” This voice is different. Professionally withdrawn is what it sounds like. Almost as if the person speaking to you has said those words a million times before. Who is it? You ask yourself.

A therapist probably. Yes, that’s who it is. The person’s voice inside your head was a therapist’s. She was telling you that you have Social Anxiety. The cool calm voice was sympathetic, yet uncaring at the same time. She only pretended to care so that you would open up to her and tell her your deepest darkest secrets. She would only pretend, just like everyone else that you spoke to in your lifetime. Which, now that you think back on it, isn’t much.

So you speak to a therapist and have Social Anxiety. Perfect. From the sounds of her diagnosis, you are socially anxious. Obviously. This must mean that when you are around crowds, you become nervous. Yeah, that’s what it is. That explains why you become red and silent during lunch, and why during class you don’t speak. But what about the needles? Why did you begin to hyperventilate when you thought of needles?

Aichmophobia. The voice says again. You automatically know what that means. It means you’re afraid of needles. But if you’re so afraid, why did you have a piercing in your lip? If you’re so afraid, why did you let some metal-clad girl take a needle-gun to your face?

The thought of the piercing causes you to lick your bottom lip. The feeling of the metal along your tongue makes you shiver slightly. You can taste the metal in your mouth now, although the lip ring is the only metal thing you have in your mouth. You suddenly realize that your lip is cold. You pull in your bottom and run your tongue along it several times to warm up the metal. The taste stays. This must be something that you just have to get used to.

You find out that your swaying forward and backward slightly on the swing you’re now sitting on. Your feet have been unknowingly dragging along on the dirt below you, breaking the silence that you just now noticed was thick throughout the playground. You glance around, it was nearly dark considering you have been sitting there pondering your unknown memories all night since your school let out.

You stop swinging and look around. The light green grass looks eerily dark and shadows jump out at you from behind ever bush. You’re not scared though, you like the dark. You like the feeling of not being able to see everything, that way you won’t have to worry about everything. You don’t have to wonder if the shadow over there is a lurking attacker, you don’t have to worry if the people in the house down the street can see you. You welcome the dark. It embraces you like a warm blanket, hiding your fears, stifling your worries and nightmares.

Except this darkness is anything but warm. This darkness leaves you feeling cold as the sun goes down behind the thick clouds that crowd over head. You look up as you feel a water droplet slice against your cheek. You shudder as the droplets become heavier and turn to rain. You get up and leave the park, not wanting to get struck by lightning by sitting on a metallic swing set out an open field in the middle of a rainstorm. You ponder who would miss you if you were struck by lighting and killed. No one. It comes as a definite answer to you. Almost immediately.

You find your feet carrying you down the side walk in the park. You look around as your feet carry you down a street and past some alleyways until you reach an array of houses. Each one of them is perched lovingly in the center of green lawns that stretch out and invite you into their house. Each house has at least a light on inside, each one looks warm and caring, each one screams comfort. As you continue walking, you wonder if that’s just what you’re doing. Just…walking. You begin to wonder where it is your home really is, not having remembered anything from the morning before lunch. Because lunch is when you really opened your eyes. They were open and they were seeing things, but that was when you really started seeing things.

You panic slightly as you continue walking. Do you know where home is? Do you have a home? Feeling your feet carry you aimlessly as you consciously panic, but subconsciously travel to a familiar destination is something to marvel at. You calm down as your feet begin to slow, moving even slower than they were while you were walking. You stop before an empty house, no lights on, no car in the driveway, nothing there. You think you begin to walk up to it, but stop. You suddenly turn and walk into the neighboring house. It’s the same for this one. No lights are one, no car in the driveway. Except this one feels as if at least someone lives here.

“Mom?” you call out on a whim.

You had to have a mother right? If not a mother, at least a mother figure, someone to take care of you at least? Your voice echoes through the dark and empty house.

Suddenly the dark doesn’t feel so inviting, or empty. You can feel someone there, silent as the grave…lurking. You close the door behind you and lock it, hoping that whatever it was you were feeling was only that…a feeling. The house is cast into an eerie darkness as you shut the door. The streetlamps outside serving no purpose now in helping illuminate the house.

You walk through, knowing that there is a couch immediately to your left, and a small table holding a phone immediately to your right. You don’t know how you know this, but you do. You also know that there is an armchair facing away from you next to the couch. You know that if someone were sitting in that armchair, you wouldn’t have been able to see them while the door was open and the room was lit. This small piece of info causes you to shudder as you begin to move silently in the direction of where you remember the stairs are at.

The silence is no longer bliss. It’s suffocating but no matter how much you tell yourself to make noise, you can’t. Your body won’t allow you to do so as you step lightly on the carpet. You pass the couch. You know this because you could feel it. Your sweaty hands were gripping on so tightly to the backing of the couch that when you moved to slide it forward and was met with nothing but air you nearly gasped.

A deafening smack could be heard throughout the room as you feel something wide and flat collide with the side of your face. You immediately fall to the ground not knowing what else to do. The stinging in your cheek was completely unexpected so you cried out slightly. Suddenly you feel something balled collide with your side, causing you to curl into a ball in an attempt to protect you face. The pain sears through your ribs as you grasp your side. What’s happening?

Over the sound of your own heart nearly beating out of your chest you finally hear something else. Breathing. Someone else’s breathing in what you thought to be your own house. Perhaps this was a mistake? Perhaps you walked into the wrong house by accident? But then why did you have a key?

You smell something foul hit your face. A stench so strong you want to gag, but something holds your whimpers and your coughing back…fear. You feel more of what you now know are fists colliding with your stomach and the side of your head, making you jerk and curl up in pain. Fingers wrap around the collar of your shirt, hoisting you up into an almost standing position as another fist collides with your opposite ribcage.

You can feel the breath hit your face, you can smell the foul stench of what you realize to be liquor on this persons breath. The person slams you against the wall behind you, making your head bash against it and throb painfully. You gasp when the person lets go of you and begins pounding their fists repeatedly all over; in your sides, in your stomach, on your face.

You try to protect yourself. You bring your hand up and guide it until it slams across this person’s face. You hear them grunt and your eyes adjust to make out their head being tossed to the side. You know they felt it, but it was a feeble attempt. This just makes them angrier as they once again bring their fist down to your face, splitting your lip. They grip your shoulders, shaking you slightly before they throw you down against the small table next to you.

“Bitch.” They spit. It’s a man’s voice.

He obviously knows who you are and is doing this on purpose. The word barely registers though, because when they threw you down, your head hit the table where the stitches were before. You can feel your head spinning and everything going fuzzy as another sharp pain shoots through your skull.

“Faggot.” The words are faint in your ears as you can feel blood trickle from the wounds into your ears, muffling the sounds.

The room begins to spin even though you can clearly feel the floor against the back of your head. You hear shuffled foot steps faintly as you feel yourself slipping into sleep. You know you need to at least leave the house, go somewhere safe, but as you begin to move you feel a sharp pain shoot through your side, as if a foot had just collided with your ribcage.

Play dead. The words say to you. Play dead and he’ll leave you alone.

Your body goes limp at your request, your breathing slows and you simply lay there. You hear more grunting above you and the shuffling of feet across the carpet. As you slowly allow yourself to slip away you hear the patter of feat on tiles. The man is in the kitchen.

Is this why you couldn’t remember? Is the throbbing pain in your head the reason why you don’t know who this man is or if this is even your home? Well he left you here so this must be your home. Is this really why you couldn’t remember?

The faint sound of a door slamming then silence assures you that you are alone. Your body is too tired to move, so you lay there and allow yourself to sleep. Just before you slip off, hazily you think…

This is why you didn’t want to remember.