Cracks in the Sidewalk

He sits at his desk, all flow stopped by writer's block. He goes outside, sits down at a bench, has a cigarette, relishing the sweet silence. It's nearly 12:30 on a Monday night, and almost all of campus is asleep. This is when he feels most normal, most free. He identifies with the dark and the quiet because it is a constant, something there with him all of the time, as we'll learn quite soon. he finishes his cigarette, stands up, drops it and stamps it out. He breathes the cold air in, feeling it collect in his chest. Time to go back in. Time to continue writing. It has to be done. He moves into the living room, sits down on the couch, and makes tea. Sighing, he leans down, and continues typing

The move to Jersey wasn't easy. I didn't have too many friends in Brooklyn, and now things were more awkward. Of course we had to move in April (namely-April 2nd; my father thought it would be funny to tell me on the first that the move was a big April fool's joke...what an awesome sense of humor), and when we moved in, the local schools were on spring break. So, I was in a brand new house, alone, with what felt like an entire country separating me from my only friend. I spent my time in our spare room, upstairs, separate from everyone else's, which had a small reading nook in the corner. I spent the entire week in there, and going to my room (on the top floor-I had never experienced a multi-floor house before..this place was gigantic). The loneliness started to kick in. And with it, came the nightmares, and the monsters.

I started school, and didn't make too many friends. I was dorky, skinny, short, wore glasses, awkward, everything that could be wrong with a 9-year-old boy. I had a thick Brooklyn accent, which drew unnecessary attention to me. All I wanted to do was go home and sit in the attic of my house, but of course, I couldn't even do that. Two weeks into my new school, and a counselor comes into the class and asks me to step outside to talk about something. I had to leave to speak to a counselor in front of the entire class. It was awful. I was totally outcast at this point. The 'popular kids' in my grade decided to start hanging out with me. I learned later that this was only for them to continue making fun of my size and accent. I went through the end of the school year, keeping to myself. The upside to this was that I was becoming incredibly well read. The downside was that I wasn't making too many friends. I just didn't fit in there. I started to worry that I would never fit in. The loneliness got worse, and the nightmares more vivid.

To this day, I don't understand the nightmares. Sometimes, I still have them. I'm alone, in a dark room. I've explored every inch of the room, and there's nothing there. I run around for a while, but for nothing. Eventually, I wander to the center of the room. There's a table and a chair. On the table is a razor and a bottle of vodka. Sometimes I drink, sometimes I cut. But most often, I sit at the table and stare. Then the voice comes in. The voice that's always in the back of my mind. Some people have a conscience, I have a monster. The monster sits across the table from me, but I never see it. It tells me things about the people I care about and tries to scare me. Often, this is when I give in. I wake up one morning to discover my wrists are red and swollen, like I've been scratching them.

Over the summer, I realize how alone I am, and that I'm not going to make too many friends. The loneliness is getting worse. I haven't had any contact with my friends in Brooklyn, and I've been thrust out of the social clique of my class, being the 'weird new kid with the funny accent'. The first cut happens this summer. I'm in my room, my parents are downstairs. My brothers are gone, I'm alone upstairs. The loneliness gets to be too much. I've tried reaching out to the kids here, and nobody wants anything to do with me. I find a pair of scissors, and make a small slice on my shoulder. My mother sees it a few days later and asks me where it came from. I tell her it happened while I was playing a game of pickup football with some kids from school. I don't have the heart to tell her I spent the day at the field alone, reading, pretending there were people there. I am alone in this world.

He starts crying, sobbing. He looks down at his arm, in just a t-shirt now. He rolls up the sleeve, runs his fingers over the scars. The tears always seem to come easier when he feels the scars. He thinks it's because they'll never fade, and that he's doomed to always bear the mark of what he's done to himself, and what he becomes when he's upset enough. He's had enough tonight. He saves the document, crawls into bed, and grabs his teddy bear. He sleeps with one his girlfriend got him. He doesn't think anyone understands its significance to him. His mother thinks it's funny, his roommate ignores the fact that it's there. He holds it, it's very tiny. He cries himself to sleep, and wishes between sobs that one day, he won't have to cry every night