God,
my eyes were wide and already open
“You feel very sad. You don’t know if you can make it through today, let alone any other day. You’re going to leave this place, and on your way home you’re going to pick up a bottle of vodka and two packets of pills. You’re not dumb, though. You’ll buy the alcohol separately, and you may even buy the pills the same. You are no idiot. The man behind the counter feels bad for you as you buy the alcohol. He sees the bags under your eyes and the way stare downwards, mumbling your thanks. He sees the tremble of your hands and he doesn’t say anything because he can not. He is not part of your life. He waves you off as an alcoholic, as a wash up, and forgets you within the hour. He’s seen a lot of people like you today. Isn’t that sad? But it’s not. It’s reality.
“The woman behind the pharmacy counter doesn’t feel anything as she hands you over the pills. She thinks ‘headache or stomach ache’ and chooses headache because you tilt yourself away from the light like it burns you and she has to prompt you to take your change because you were staring off into what she thought was your thoughts. It was the void. She doesn’t notice the bag already hanging from your hand, and she doesn’t hear the clink of a glass bottle as it knocks against the door on the way out. Little blessings.
“Possibly, you buy the second box from a supermarket. You use self checkout to avoid the stares of the staff, yet you catch the attention of a young teen. He sees you, thin as a rail and as haggard as the word, and is struck with jealously. He’s been dieting for six months, you see, down to 55kg; a BMI of 17.5. He’s not been diagnosed yet, but tomorrow his sister will catch him purging to the thoughts of your sunken form and she’ll ask mummy why big brother was being sick when he wasn’t ill. She’ll cry, probably, but you’ll carry on because you never knew it happened. It may never happen, you might have bought both packets from the pharmacy; then the woman serving you there would frown as you paid and wonder why you need so much paracetamol. She isn’t so sure it’s a headache - but what can she do?
Why, what could anyone do?
“So, you drive back to your home in a car that isn’t yours. It’s your mums. She’s out, this weekend, visiting friends. Getting away from the oppressing feel to her house that is you. She resents you being a wash up, a fuck up. She resents you staying at her house and you know that but you’re so very scared of the cold embrace of the streets. Tomorrow she’ll come home and she’ll cry, and she’ll feel guilty for every thought she ever had against you. So you hide in your room in her house and you wrap yourself in covers you never sleep in and listen to those obscure bands that make you think of the cigarettes of university. You sing along, sometimes, ‘if I sold my soul, for a bag of gold, to you, which one of us would be the foolish one?’ and you sound so very sick and lonely. You wish you had a talent and you sink deeper into yourself.
“You get home and you unlock door, trembling hands struggling to maneuver the simple handle. Your next door neighbour peeks out the window at the noise and sees you, bent in on yourself and struggling with the handle. She thinks ‘drunk again’ and ducks away. She remembers the time you threw a brick at her house when you were seventeen and she scowls. Nothing but trouble, she thinks, the world would be better without men like him. She’ll eat her words (thoughts?), the day after tomorrow, when the ambulance outside her house is finally explained by a crying ex-mother. She’ll kill herself, a year from today, because she never tried to talk to your mother about you. Your mother is in a hospital, in a year, and your neighbour’s in the morgue.
“You’re upstairs, now. The bottle of vodka sits patiently at your side as, for the last time, you log into your blog. You open a new entry, and with numerous spelling mistakes and breaks, write your last entry. ‘I’m leaving for a while, guys. Probably won’t be any blog updates for a very long time. I hope I won’t see any of you soon, you’re too lovely to go where I am to. God bless. God damn.’ and you log out (for the last time) and sit on your bed. You push each pill from it’s tray and you stare at them like it’s everything.”
He pauses, leaning back in his chair and stares you in the eyes.
“Now,” he says softly “Are they?”
“The woman behind the pharmacy counter doesn’t feel anything as she hands you over the pills. She thinks ‘headache or stomach ache’ and chooses headache because you tilt yourself away from the light like it burns you and she has to prompt you to take your change because you were staring off into what she thought was your thoughts. It was the void. She doesn’t notice the bag already hanging from your hand, and she doesn’t hear the clink of a glass bottle as it knocks against the door on the way out. Little blessings.
“Possibly, you buy the second box from a supermarket. You use self checkout to avoid the stares of the staff, yet you catch the attention of a young teen. He sees you, thin as a rail and as haggard as the word, and is struck with jealously. He’s been dieting for six months, you see, down to 55kg; a BMI of 17.5. He’s not been diagnosed yet, but tomorrow his sister will catch him purging to the thoughts of your sunken form and she’ll ask mummy why big brother was being sick when he wasn’t ill. She’ll cry, probably, but you’ll carry on because you never knew it happened. It may never happen, you might have bought both packets from the pharmacy; then the woman serving you there would frown as you paid and wonder why you need so much paracetamol. She isn’t so sure it’s a headache - but what can she do?
Why, what could anyone do?
“So, you drive back to your home in a car that isn’t yours. It’s your mums. She’s out, this weekend, visiting friends. Getting away from the oppressing feel to her house that is you. She resents you being a wash up, a fuck up. She resents you staying at her house and you know that but you’re so very scared of the cold embrace of the streets. Tomorrow she’ll come home and she’ll cry, and she’ll feel guilty for every thought she ever had against you. So you hide in your room in her house and you wrap yourself in covers you never sleep in and listen to those obscure bands that make you think of the cigarettes of university. You sing along, sometimes, ‘if I sold my soul, for a bag of gold, to you, which one of us would be the foolish one?’ and you sound so very sick and lonely. You wish you had a talent and you sink deeper into yourself.
“You get home and you unlock door, trembling hands struggling to maneuver the simple handle. Your next door neighbour peeks out the window at the noise and sees you, bent in on yourself and struggling with the handle. She thinks ‘drunk again’ and ducks away. She remembers the time you threw a brick at her house when you were seventeen and she scowls. Nothing but trouble, she thinks, the world would be better without men like him. She’ll eat her words (thoughts?), the day after tomorrow, when the ambulance outside her house is finally explained by a crying ex-mother. She’ll kill herself, a year from today, because she never tried to talk to your mother about you. Your mother is in a hospital, in a year, and your neighbour’s in the morgue.
“You’re upstairs, now. The bottle of vodka sits patiently at your side as, for the last time, you log into your blog. You open a new entry, and with numerous spelling mistakes and breaks, write your last entry. ‘I’m leaving for a while, guys. Probably won’t be any blog updates for a very long time. I hope I won’t see any of you soon, you’re too lovely to go where I am to. God bless. God damn.’ and you log out (for the last time) and sit on your bed. You push each pill from it’s tray and you stare at them like it’s everything.”
He pauses, leaning back in his chair and stares you in the eyes.
“Now,” he says softly “Are they?”