Distortion Disorder
Brotherly Scars; Jordan
What am I doing?
I'm delusional... this isn't real, and I'm not here. My brother's talking to me and I'm laughing at his dry humour. He's telling me about his girlfriend, Keanna and laughing at me because I'm single and always have been.
Of course this isn't true; it isn't happening. This is impossible, because I'm curled up on the bathroom floor cluching the sharpest object I can find. Why am I doing this? It doesn't even bother me that I'm just like him when I do this. My parents are screaming and kicking from the other side of the door as I choke up the tears that prove I'm just a boy. They care, they just have a weird way of showing it. They don't want me to die.
But it doesn't matter- I've lived all too long. I don't deserve to live because I've ultimately caused the death of another. My brother Jake killed himself two months ago, and I'm responsible because I knew it was coming. I knew...
Just like a year ago I knew he was practicing self-harm. At first I was angry, even though he explained to be that it was only a method of excluding his frustration, sometimes to help him sleep, which I knew was dangerous. But I realized that Jake was my brother, and I couldn't judge him for it, even if it bothered me. I kept his secret, even if I knew it was wrong. Because our loyalty was more important to me than our secrets.
But then he took it all too far a few months ago, and we got in a fight over it. He stormed off to his room and locked the door, refusing to come out for the rest of the night. The next morning, when we went to wake him for school, he told us that he was sick and he wanted to stay home. And it was funny... Because he appologized to me. He told me that he was sorry for what he did, and that I was his brother no matter what. Jake never appologized... Not even to his girlfriend.
That afternoon before the lunch bell even wrang, I was reported to the office. The secretary told me that I needed to go home; My mother had called and it was a family emergency. Feeling the sense of worry any twin would, I ran home just as I saw the stretcher rolling out in the front door. I remember the jolt of adrenaline sending me forward; destined to reach that sheet. Destined to find what lied beneath it.
The paramedics holding me back made it obvious of what the situation was. That, or what I seen my mother crying in the doorway. My mother never cried; at least not infront of anyone. And then it hit me... and I just collapsed; blacked it all out.
I went through each day as if I were on autopilot for two whole months. I kept everything bottled up inside and look where it got me. I never even cried at his funeral. I remember. And everyone was looking at me like I was crazy; Like I should have been locked away. I remember thinking that they should have.
The banging at the door was distant; drowned out by the thoughts that were so trecherously killing me. My skin was stinging, but the smooth metal haden't even touched it yet. It was burning from the inside, out. 'I'm a pussy. Just get it over with,' I tell myself, applying more pressure against my skin with the freezing blade.
I'm delusional... this isn't real, and I'm not here. My brother's talking to me and I'm laughing at his dry humour. He's telling me about his girlfriend, Keanna and laughing at me because I'm single and always have been.
Of course this isn't true; it isn't happening. This is impossible, because I'm curled up on the bathroom floor cluching the sharpest object I can find. Why am I doing this? It doesn't even bother me that I'm just like him when I do this. My parents are screaming and kicking from the other side of the door as I choke up the tears that prove I'm just a boy. They care, they just have a weird way of showing it. They don't want me to die.
But it doesn't matter- I've lived all too long. I don't deserve to live because I've ultimately caused the death of another. My brother Jake killed himself two months ago, and I'm responsible because I knew it was coming. I knew...
Just like a year ago I knew he was practicing self-harm. At first I was angry, even though he explained to be that it was only a method of excluding his frustration, sometimes to help him sleep, which I knew was dangerous. But I realized that Jake was my brother, and I couldn't judge him for it, even if it bothered me. I kept his secret, even if I knew it was wrong. Because our loyalty was more important to me than our secrets.
But then he took it all too far a few months ago, and we got in a fight over it. He stormed off to his room and locked the door, refusing to come out for the rest of the night. The next morning, when we went to wake him for school, he told us that he was sick and he wanted to stay home. And it was funny... Because he appologized to me. He told me that he was sorry for what he did, and that I was his brother no matter what. Jake never appologized... Not even to his girlfriend.
That afternoon before the lunch bell even wrang, I was reported to the office. The secretary told me that I needed to go home; My mother had called and it was a family emergency. Feeling the sense of worry any twin would, I ran home just as I saw the stretcher rolling out in the front door. I remember the jolt of adrenaline sending me forward; destined to reach that sheet. Destined to find what lied beneath it.
The paramedics holding me back made it obvious of what the situation was. That, or what I seen my mother crying in the doorway. My mother never cried; at least not infront of anyone. And then it hit me... and I just collapsed; blacked it all out.
I went through each day as if I were on autopilot for two whole months. I kept everything bottled up inside and look where it got me. I never even cried at his funeral. I remember. And everyone was looking at me like I was crazy; Like I should have been locked away. I remember thinking that they should have.
The banging at the door was distant; drowned out by the thoughts that were so trecherously killing me. My skin was stinging, but the smooth metal haden't even touched it yet. It was burning from the inside, out. 'I'm a pussy. Just get it over with,' I tell myself, applying more pressure against my skin with the freezing blade.