They are stained. Stained with the blood that once seeped through my veins. They hurt, they fucking hurt. Why? Why did I do this to myself? Tell me. Tell me. I don’t know. The thoughts that instructed me to do this, were stale and didn’t belong to me. Who is this? The walls that surround me were pale and cracked. Hollow voices that I heard each passing day were taunting and merciless. They hurt me; they caged me.
I tremble there, alone in the blackened corner, merging into it. I struggle to move my frail hands and when I do, they sting. The air surrounding me is hazy and smells fetid. Don’t breathe it in I beg; I have no choice. Faded voices outside slowly turn to whispers. Paranoia consumes me, it makes me the subject of these. She’s insane. She’s ugly. She’s hopeless. Yes, I am, I tell myself. What is the point of breathing, of talking, tasting, loving or laughing? What’s the point of feeling another’s lips pressed against mine, claiming me, engulfing me, belonging to me, and my hands intertwining with his? This used to be my own reality but is now an everlasting fantasy. I can see my mother picking the lingering shards of hope and potential from the floor to weave me back together, or rather try. I can also see my father shaking his head with disappointment and giving me up without hesitation; that has always been him. Hatred for me ran through his every move. I stand up. My hands are stinging again. The tap begins to drip its clarity upon my wounds, making me tense up. The cats outside claw at one another, the ambulance rushes past, the dog barks and I am left here. Not known or in the thoughts of someone. I am barely existing, slowly I am disintegrating to dust.
A pale and lifeless face lives inside the shattered mirror; it’s mine. No longer do I feel anything anymore as the sharp blade penetrates through my skin. Smiling as the vermillion coloured liquid escapes from beneath me. I know that this is wrong and selfish, but no longer am I who I was. The leaves falling softly to the ground, the final ice cream scoop into the cone, the application of bright red lipstick and the catching of falling snow in my mouth, don’t bring me happiness or release. I have lost the simplicity of these actions; I have lost me. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be the one who went out, who applied the red lipstick with honour, who strutted the mini skirt and tight tank tops and I used to be the one who could get anyone I wanted. Now look at me. The lipstick no longer glides over smoothly as it once did. My lips are cracked and dry, my body is limp and has become one that I don’t want to see; I now hide away in remorse.
What are you doing? the voice inside my head screams. I try to fight it off, to bat it away from me, I fail. I fall. Down spiralling out of control. I cover my head and end up grasping too hard, hurting myself even more. I don’t cry this time. I just let it happen, feeling I am constantly holding my head above water, struggling not to give up and let myself go. The cats no longer claw at one another, there is silence; one is dead. The tap has stopped dripping, the dog no longer barks, the siren has faded into the distance and the whispers have gone. Footsteps begin to approach me from the outside. Mum.
Her raspy yet concerned voice calls out my name. A name that belonged to someone who was loyal, genuine and smart. Now it barely holds together a sarcastic, bitter and frail being. I yearn to feel wanted again, to no longer feel numb to wish I could meet their expectations of what were a promise of my childhood, Yes mum, I will make you proud. I remember her smile when I blurted out those words. When I looked deep into her oxford blue eyes, how those now muffled words soothed every bone inside her. Her voice is closer, my body aches. I want to give up. Do it; I will catch you.
I want to sculpt a pattern into my canvased arm. I want to express the loud thoughts that corrupt my mind; I want to escape.
“Where are you?” She asks. Her keys fall to the floor in the distance. I can hear this.
Footsteps are now at the closed door. Their silhouette shows itself and she knocks. She knocks louder and my ears ring. My heart rate begins to increase and then slows. My throat opens, welcoming the death I am about to swallow over and over again. Yes. The voice is now a hum. A hum I can’t and don’t want to decipher. I don’t want to decipher the meanings of pathetic excuses. I don’t want failure to be my ally. No screams, no fighting, no listening. I want to sleep.
The door. The door breaks down. I swallow. I’m gone.