Wrists

Despite everything that happened the day before, I had dinner with my mother and Cheyenne again. But then I went upstairs and emptied myself in the bathroom shortly after. I felt so disgusted with myself; for the first time in a while, I stripped myself down and actually stared at myself in the mirror. I pointed out every fault with wet eyes—hatred ever-growing. No wonder Elijah didn’t want someone like me: even I could say that my bones were protruding so horrifyingly that you could see the form of my rib cage and hips in a semi-loose T-shirt. This is all people ever saw when they looked at me; they didn’t see my pain, my terror, my anxiety, my demons, my thoughts, or who I was as an individual.

They saw bones. Someone who was killing himself. Killing himself to what? Definitely not “perfection”. Definitely not to “happiness”. Definitely not to “inner peace”. So to what? To please the nightmares expanding inside my brain and slowly—but surely—taking over? In a fit of self-loathing I emptied myself again and again and again. I emptied myself until all I could do was dry heave and cry and hold my pain-filled stomach and gasp for air. I emptied myself until I was on the ground, in front of the toilet, a mess of sobs and terrors.

I would wish this on no one. This forever inner pain and turmoil was too real. This feeling of hopelessness was too evident. It stung; it showed on my skin, in my dead eyes, on my chapped lips. I was no longer Graham—I was horrible. A horrible, horrible demon that took over his body.

I was the demons in Graham’s head after all.

I was the very voice letting him down, driving him insane, driving him to the inevitable death that came with a disease such as this. But not until Graham was broken down completely mentally and physically did he pass away. Oh, no—I was making Graham feel true, raw pain before he’s to be rid of. Graham was going to hate himself and loathe himself and doubt himself and cry himself to nothing before I was done with him.

I was the demon killing Graham.

With that thought in mind, I felt myself lose any snuff of sanity I had left. My stomach never felt empty enough; my insides were on fire, but I wasn’t clean enough. I had to lose everything—everything. I had to be nothing: and I was going to be nothing even if it killed me.

I tried to empty myself some more.

And more.

And more.

But I was at my limit. That was enough. I couldn’t anymore. I felt weak, sluggish—I was in pain.

No.

Graham was pain.

I was the demon.

Graham’s world spun in front of his eyes.

And soon I he was unconscious on the bathroom floor.