"Where Do All Those Good Things Hide?"
“Where Do All Those Good Things Hide?”
Some nights he sits in silence, shaking and shaken by haunts and ghosts and almost-forgotten memories. Some nights he wraps himself in those thoughts and lives inside his head, refusing to let anyone come close. Those are the worst, by far. Can't tell, no one will understand...no one knows what he's going through. So, curled up on the floor, he waits for morning to come and the phantoms of his mind to almost disappear in the daylight. But they never do. Not completely. They only lessen for short bits of time.
Morning arrives and he pushes himself to his feet and dresses as if on auto-pilot. He never thinks. He just shoves his feet into his shoes, brushes his teeth and walks through the front door, not really caring about his appearance or what others might think of him. He moves forward without noticing a thing. He looks, but he doesn’t see.
If pressed for conversation, he fakes his words, shoots forced smiles and prays to God that no one realizes that he doesn’t give a shit and is only being polite. But still, he carries on day in and day out. It’s been so long now that it’s not second nature, it’s first. It’s the only way he knows how to be. These days, the world doesn’t care about him and he doesn’t care about it.
Survival is purely instinctual, but not necessary. He doesn’t actively try to kill himself, but he doesn’t stop himself from accepting things that just might ruin his life. He doesn’t stop because he doesn’t care and no one notices. No one has ever noticed and that’s the problem. He could drink himself into oblivion and no one would figure it out because he’s so fucking good at keeping his secrets. That’s become the only thing he’s good at.
School means nothing, friends mean nothing, family means nothing. His secrets are now his only friends and his best teachers. His secrets don’t betray him. His secrets are his and his alone to keep or share as he sees fit, and so far, he’s chosen to keep them as close to his heart as possible. He wants to keep them safe and hide them away where no one else will ever find them. He’s not willing to share that part of himself with the world.
The older he gets, the more secrets he acquires. The more secrets he has, the more lying he has to do, but that’s alright. He’s used to that by now. He’s learned to be quick on his feet, to pass off the truth as a joke, to fake a story so well that it sounds even better than the truth does. And he’s believed because no one would ever suspect someone like him of something like that. He’s a good kid. Good kids don’t make things up. Good kids don’t do those things. He knows better, but no one else cares to dig any deeper to find out the truth, and that’s just fine with him. It’s better that way.
He’s so good at hiding himself away that no one sees when the circles under his eyes start to darken and become more apparent. No one realizes when his clothes start to hang a little looser on his body. No one grasps that he stopped showing up for meal times. He’s fooled everyone into thinking he’s asleep in bed at midnight when his dirty little secret is that he’s sitting on the floor of his bathroom with a razor blade lying near his hip and a blood-stained towel pressed against his arm. He’s got everyone thinking that dental hygiene is the most important thing to him because he always smells of minty mouthwash, not of stale cigarettes and heroin smoke.
No one knows that the only reason he gave up at all is because no one noticed.
Morning arrives and he pushes himself to his feet and dresses as if on auto-pilot. He never thinks. He just shoves his feet into his shoes, brushes his teeth and walks through the front door, not really caring about his appearance or what others might think of him. He moves forward without noticing a thing. He looks, but he doesn’t see.
If pressed for conversation, he fakes his words, shoots forced smiles and prays to God that no one realizes that he doesn’t give a shit and is only being polite. But still, he carries on day in and day out. It’s been so long now that it’s not second nature, it’s first. It’s the only way he knows how to be. These days, the world doesn’t care about him and he doesn’t care about it.
Survival is purely instinctual, but not necessary. He doesn’t actively try to kill himself, but he doesn’t stop himself from accepting things that just might ruin his life. He doesn’t stop because he doesn’t care and no one notices. No one has ever noticed and that’s the problem. He could drink himself into oblivion and no one would figure it out because he’s so fucking good at keeping his secrets. That’s become the only thing he’s good at.
School means nothing, friends mean nothing, family means nothing. His secrets are now his only friends and his best teachers. His secrets don’t betray him. His secrets are his and his alone to keep or share as he sees fit, and so far, he’s chosen to keep them as close to his heart as possible. He wants to keep them safe and hide them away where no one else will ever find them. He’s not willing to share that part of himself with the world.
The older he gets, the more secrets he acquires. The more secrets he has, the more lying he has to do, but that’s alright. He’s used to that by now. He’s learned to be quick on his feet, to pass off the truth as a joke, to fake a story so well that it sounds even better than the truth does. And he’s believed because no one would ever suspect someone like him of something like that. He’s a good kid. Good kids don’t make things up. Good kids don’t do those things. He knows better, but no one else cares to dig any deeper to find out the truth, and that’s just fine with him. It’s better that way.
He’s so good at hiding himself away that no one sees when the circles under his eyes start to darken and become more apparent. No one realizes when his clothes start to hang a little looser on his body. No one grasps that he stopped showing up for meal times. He’s fooled everyone into thinking he’s asleep in bed at midnight when his dirty little secret is that he’s sitting on the floor of his bathroom with a razor blade lying near his hip and a blood-stained towel pressed against his arm. He’s got everyone thinking that dental hygiene is the most important thing to him because he always smells of minty mouthwash, not of stale cigarettes and heroin smoke.
No one knows that the only reason he gave up at all is because no one noticed.