Anything But Red
2
I remember my fourth birthday party. I remember being more interested in the cake than
blowing out the candles. I remember her, small and smiling- her mission to destroy the cake as a small hand came down and wiped out a corner. Icing flew everywhere. I am surrounded by strange smiling faces, all singing and laughing. I tell myself they are masks.
I feel like telling myself to run away; to get as far away as I possibly can before it’s too late. You will see horrible things. You will become a horrible person. You will do horrible things. You will feel yourself rotting away from the inside out every day of your life if you stay here.
But all I do is smile. Icing fingerprints leave trails over wrapping paper as I watch myself rip open presents. There is a part of me that believes that I made this all up; that it would have never happened. Yet there is a part of me that has not completely lost hope that holds onto this one happy memory like the edge of a cliff.
The man in white comes in. Bombards me with questions. Why did I do it? Was it the first time? Did I do drugs? How much would I say? Do I drink alcohol? How much would I say? How is life at home? How long had this been going on?
I couldn’t take it anymore. I could have fought him. I could have chosen to not tell him anything. But somehow I find that more pointless that just telling him what he wants to hear.
The man in white scribbles notes on his clipboard and leaves me once again in solitude. This is the human condition, I should be used to it, yet all I want is someone to hold onto. I've never said that in my entire life. It's the one thing I have kept inside since I was that four year-old-boy. I grasp onto the mattress so hard I imagine my fingernails bleed. My mind is racing, like it’s a completely different entity from my body. My body is dead. Numb. Lost.
blowing out the candles. I remember her, small and smiling- her mission to destroy the cake as a small hand came down and wiped out a corner. Icing flew everywhere. I am surrounded by strange smiling faces, all singing and laughing. I tell myself they are masks.
I feel like telling myself to run away; to get as far away as I possibly can before it’s too late. You will see horrible things. You will become a horrible person. You will do horrible things. You will feel yourself rotting away from the inside out every day of your life if you stay here.
But all I do is smile. Icing fingerprints leave trails over wrapping paper as I watch myself rip open presents. There is a part of me that believes that I made this all up; that it would have never happened. Yet there is a part of me that has not completely lost hope that holds onto this one happy memory like the edge of a cliff.
The man in white comes in. Bombards me with questions. Why did I do it? Was it the first time? Did I do drugs? How much would I say? Do I drink alcohol? How much would I say? How is life at home? How long had this been going on?
I couldn’t take it anymore. I could have fought him. I could have chosen to not tell him anything. But somehow I find that more pointless that just telling him what he wants to hear.
The man in white scribbles notes on his clipboard and leaves me once again in solitude. This is the human condition, I should be used to it, yet all I want is someone to hold onto. I've never said that in my entire life. It's the one thing I have kept inside since I was that four year-old-boy. I grasp onto the mattress so hard I imagine my fingernails bleed. My mind is racing, like it’s a completely different entity from my body. My body is dead. Numb. Lost.