Negative 15.

“Look, if you don’t want me here then I could just leave.”

I don’t say anything.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

I can’t say it. I shouldn’t say it.

He stares at me, tapping his thumb against his thigh.

Impatiently. I knew I shouldn’t have called him. This was a stupid idea.

A single tear slips through the cracks, and I look down at my feet. My shame is overbearing and everything inside me is screaming to tell him to leave. Whatever you do, you can’t be left alone. Not even for a second.

You’ve got to tell him.

I look up at him, mouth beginning to make a sound… but lose all language from his eyes. Frustration.

Push. Through.

I exhale and slide onto the floor, crossing my legs.

“What is it?”

Fuck this. This is stupid. “I’m just a bit stressed, that’s all. It’ll pass,” it won’t, “I just need some time to myself.”

“You sure?”

No. “Yes.”

Coward!

“Okay. Listen, I’ll tell them that you just needed to take a walk. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, alright?”

“Alright,” the word comes out without sound.

He picks up his bag from the floor – Don’t! – and turns for the door – Let him leave you alone!

“Minus 15!” I blurt out.

He stops in his tracks, hand on the door handle. His brows furrow in confusion.

“On a scale,” I slowly begin, “from positive 10 to negative 10.” My heart starts clenching in my chest, but I focus on his shoes as they turn in my direction and push through. “Positive numbers for healthy mental state and negative numbers for unhealthy mental state.” I stop.

If I continue, I will no longer be playing by the rules of society or reality… all or dead?

Maybe, all then dead.

“Negative 1 is good, for me. Negative 4 being anxious but managing. Negative 7 being bad and I need a break. Negative 9 means extreme distress…”

I hesitate now because he moved away from the door and dropped his bag back on the floor.

“And…?”

“Ne-negative 10, feeling… suicidal.” I look at my backpack I’ve set on the opposite side of this classroom. I take a shaky breath, “Negative 15.”

He follows my line of sight to my backpack and then back at me.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks.

I look up at him and slowly shake my head as tears fall silently.

“Oh. Ah. Okay,” he moves and settles down on the floor in front of me. “Ha-How can I help?”

How do you say it? I close my eyes and place my interlocked hands over my head and confess quickly, “I don’t know! I- I just- I- its- uh- “I exhale. And start again, “You get to a point where your mind is fighting against you and all things rational are gone. And then my heart-” my throat tightens.

He waits attentively for me to finish. But then images flood my mind, and I can’t say what they show. I shouldn’t.

“But then your heart…” he gently nudges. “Your heart… knows what’s right? Is saying this isn’t the answer?” He suggests.

“Is the reason why I dragged you into this room.”

I open my eyes and look at him. Really look at him. I watch as the words settle in, and suddenly I can’t sit still.

I get up and start heading for my backpack. He jumps to his feet right behind me. “Hold on, hold on hold on!”

I stop and turn around.

“Wait! Just wait.” He forces out a breath, “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

I start pacing back and forth, words are just words, and they mean nothing at this point.

“I see you,” I start, “and based on the way you are, you seem like you could be a great friend if we were to be friends. I’ve had this idea for a long time. But also, I feel more, and I’m scared of what that is. And then, beyond my control, you are there in my dreams, exactly like how I’d picture us being friends but we’re also more.

It’s crazy, I know. We barely know each other and out of nowhere I start being- “mental, “this. Dragging you into a classroom, telling you that I’m not okay and that I dream about you. Textbook crazy. But with everything going on… I go through the day living like I shouldn’t even be here, and then when I’m asleep, you make me feel like I do belong here.

It’s frustrating! Because I feel crazy. For what? Having feelings? Is it crazy that I hate feeling alone? Is it crazy that I just want to be honest? Is it crazy that I’m afraid? Is it crazy that I just want to tell you to kiss me?” I stop and look at him with probably crazy wide eyes. At this point, I’m shaking.

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes wandering everywhere except on me. Yet I wait and wait. And he doesn’t say anything.

Wrap it up, Crazy. It’s over.

I take a deep shaky breath and try to pull myself together. I head over to my backpack and place it on the nearest table.

With as much sanity as I can muster, I backtrack slowly, “Never mind, okay? I’m just at a place that I shouldn’t have dragged you in. I apologize for making you emotionally hostage to this situation. Everything that I have said is all random thoughts that do not matter, and you can leave now if you want to. This feeling will pass, and I’ll calm down eventually. We can both pretend afterward that this never happened. Fair?”

I wait for him to agree and leave. But he has his eyes focused on me, unconvinced, calculating.

“If I leave… you’ll kill yourself.” He doesn’t state it as a question, but it’s implied.

“That’s not going to happen, and you don’t have to worry about- “

“Don’t lie to me,” he cuts in.

I press my lips together, straight as an arrow, “Yes.”

I freeze as he locks the classroom door and can only watch as he heads over to me. He reaches for my backpack and chucks it into the cupboard before locking the door and slipping the key into his pocket.

“Negative 15?”

I’m confused, but I nod.

“Let me help you then get it down to negative 7.”

My stomach starts twisting as he gently takes my hands in his and pulls me away from the cupboard. He leads me into the supplies closet and closes the door behind him. It’s dark in here but neither of us makes the move to switch on the lights.

“This is stupid,” I say.

“You asked for help.”

“This is stupid,” I repeat, “you don’t even want to be here.”

“And I am helping you.” He carefully cups my face in his hands.

“This is stupid,” I whisper.

I start to feel his warm breath on my face.

“You don’t have to-“ I start but can’t finish because his lips are on my lips. Soft.

Have I mentioned I’ve never kissed anyone before?

It’s strange. Awkward. Stupid. Soft. Wrong. I pull away.

“I- I- I’ve never…”

“Me neither.”

“Then, why?”

“Just let it happen,” and then he kisses me again.

Just let it happen. And I kiss him back.

Think I’ve slipped into my dream because I slowly wrap my arms over his shoulders, as he slips his around my waist. We pull back and kiss again but with less hesitancy.

Muscles that I didn’t realize were tense are starting to loosen up as he strokes my back, and I’m beginning to fall comfortable in his presence. I think he starts sensing it because he starts kissing me more passionately, and I too. The world losing existence and here we are.

It’s his skin on my lips, his breath on my neck, his shoulder blades beneath my fingers. Blood racing through my system, nerves blazing under his touch. This is forever and ever without the pain.

Before I know it, we’re on the ground. His back against the wall and legs straight out, while my knees are cradling his hips as I’m sitting on his lap. We don’t know how long we’ve been making out.

“Wait, wait,” he pants breathlessly.

“What?” I pull back.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

I don’t know what it is, but I start giggling uncontrollably. He starts chuckling in response and gently pushes me off him as he readjusts his legs. I don’t get back up from the floor as I can’t stop laughing. He shuffles over and wraps his arms around me from behind, little spooning me.

“Glad to hear you laughing now. How do you feel?”

“If you’re asking if I’m feeling less suicidal? The answer is definitely.”

“Good.”

I laugh a little longer and then find my breath. We don’t move from this position, just lying down on the ground for a while.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks.

“Nothing. Just radio silence in my head. I like that.”

We don’t say anything more for a while.

Then he breaks the silence again “I’ve thought about us being friends before too. A long time ago.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah. But I didn’t say anything because you gave off this ‘do not disturb’ vibe and thought against it.”

“Hmmm.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“Didn’t know… that it was because of your…”

“…mental illness,” I complete.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I know.”

“You don’t deserve this.”

“I know,” I whisper.

The Silent Treatment.

I’ve got a story to tell.

---

On a late October afternoon, I was sitting by the lecture halls, leaning my back against a pillar. It was the end of an academic day and I have had enough.

Boring lectures were one thing, but the darkness lurking close by just made it unbearably worse. I had been trying to fight against it but it wouldn’t back off. It had wrapped itself loosely around my waist trying to tug me down to their level. Below sanity, below breathable air, below existence.

My friend, who studies a different course, lets me know that he’s on his way. He wanted to catch up since we haven’t talked in a while. So I waited for him to come out of class to talk with me.

Once he comes, I found myself at a loss for words. I didn’t want to put my depressed mood as a topic of conversation. I didn’t want to talk about anything superficial either, I didn’t have the heart for it. At that moment, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know who to be, what to be.

We sat there side by side without having said anything, not even a greeting. The whole time, I barely looked at him. As I was still figuring out what to say, I waited for him to break the silence first instead of me.

After a while of nothing coming from both of us, I quit trying to come up with something to say. I quit waiting for him to speak. I just changed focus to listening to the sounds around us. Every once in a while I would have the sudden urge to speak, but push it down as it’s not necessary to me whatever I say.

I don’t even question his silence. I don’t question why the whole time he never looked my way, or how he just picked up his book and started reading it.

My consiousness doesn’t return until I notice it had come to the time of the golden hours. Golden rays shone through the trees, and the cooing of pigeons were the background music.

The overall setting gave me nostalgia. Took me back to my childhood hometown, to outdoor break in school; the nourishing morning light, the gentle breeze and smell of wet grass. Took me back to an adventurous childhood; in front of our old house, the fire hydrant as a base for tag, covered by a roof of tree branches. Took me back to Al-Dosari; the barely-a-forest forest, soft white sand, cars all around, rug on the floor, and family picnics. Pigeons were the background music of all those times. When I closed my eyes, I could picture those moments. Made me feel that wonder and magic I used to feel while walking around my hometown at the golden hours. It was like sunrise.

Soon I found myself overwhelmed, tears streamed down my face. I had to get up, stand on the other side of the pillar so he couldn’t see them. They wouldn’t stop flowing, so I let them free for a while. Once I came to comprehension of the emotion, I recomposed myself and sat back down next to him.

I no longer felt any urge to speak.

It had eased me a lot more, enough to enjoy that moment. I had lost myself within it, blurring out all boundaries.

The sudden bouts of bird sounds compelled me to take out my phone to record it. While I had it out, I took pictures of the shapes caused by the light that was able to break through the trees. As a spur of the moment, I snapped a candid of him.

At that moment, I had felt free, real, innocent. Because I was capturing images without trying not to be noticed, or waiting to be alone.

I sat back down and relaxed. Closed my eyes, breathing to the sound of rustling leaves.

Timeless time went by until he finally got up, suprisingly handed me his book, The Witch of Portebello, and left. With not a single word or a farewell.

We sat for what I presumed 30 minutes, no exchange of words. We both had taken a break from the act of trying. Trying to be supposedly real, and just unintentionally became real. We took a vacation from loud conversations, racing-to-catch-up minds and unnecessary questions. To just be.

We ran away from ourselves, and did it in each other’s company. I couldn’t have done this alone, because it wouldn’t have provided answers I couldn’t have found without his presence. Alone, I would have been trapped with my consuming darkness spiralling out of control again.

The darkness around my waist dissipated away by the warmth of natural magic and inner peace. We found peace.

---

I’m currently on a 15 days silent treatment.
I’m not allowed to talk to my closest friends, socialise too much or explain myself verbally.

To stop putting my unhealthy mind under pressure into trying to be healthy.

Crossing The Line.

This a sequel to One More Day.

---

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

I glance up to the mirror and stop. This is… strange. This is… not how I thought this would go. I thought that the first time I do this, it’s because I’ve been driven over the edge. That I would be overwhelmed by built up dark energy and burst apart with anguish. That I would be gasping for breath, going to extreme measures to breathe freely again. Hot tears streaming down my face, pulse racing and my entire body shaking. I thought… I don’t know. This is strange. But I don’t think strange is the right word to describe it.

I feel calm. Too calm about this. But I guess that’s due to the fact that, most of the time, my reactions are inverse to how it should be in certain situations. A couple moments ago though, I was heartbroken. I was deeply heartbroken. Filled with dread, close enough to tears but holding it in because I couldn’t let them spill right in front of her. She can’t know how much damage she has caused in me. She can’t know. I guess that’s why I’ve never done this before, because then she would know. Well then, what’s different about now? It’s no different, but I’ll try extra hard to hide it.

I look… blank. No, wait. I can see the dread in my eyes, but it’s dry. I can see the faint form of eye bags probably because I’m somewhat sleep deprived. My lips are turned down at the corners, just slightly. Other than that, there’s no other sign of how loud my mind is screaming at me right now. How close I am to pulling the steering wheel, driving myself off a cliff.

Who’s gonna stop you now?

It’s a good thing I’m not driving a car right now. Otherwise, if the impulse came, nothing would stop me.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I refocus on the mirror image of my dressing table. I see no difference in the facial features, but there’s something different in my eyes. I see sorrow in them. And I know it’s not the moment I’m seeing…

“Not really,” I reply to her. Then look back down at my left wrist. I’ve been tracing it with my fingers for past couple of minutes. Thinking…

“I know that talking about it usually helps. I really think you should talk about it.”

Shaking my head, “I don’t want to talk about it to anyone.”

“You don’t have to tell anyone. Just talk to us.”

This time when I look up I see multiple versions of myself sitting in a circle on the bed with me. I guess this must be a bigger deal than I’ve been thinking it was.

The one that’s sitting on my immediate right is the closest to my current age, she’s 17 years old. She looks at me expectantly, “Talk to us. Say it out loud.”

I look around to the rest of them. After 17, there’s 16, 15, 12, 10-years-old, and 12-months-old me in the arms of the 17-years-old me.

“You’re all too young to understand,” I tell them.

“I’m 16. There’s only 2 years’ difference between you and me.”

“A lot can happen in a year or two,” says 17. That prompts for 16 and 15 to look at each other understandingly.

“Yeah, but you don’t just get stupider the older you get,” counters 10.

“Who said anything about being stupid?” I comeback, “Let’s not forget what she believed.” I point at 15.

They look at her, she looks away and doesn’t say anything.

It’s 16 who breaks the silence, “It was a feeling that stretched down to her soul. But what you are feeling is different. You are choosing this.”

When I was 15, I believed deep down to the depths of my soul that I wasn’t going to see the day when I turn 16. 3 years later and I still don’t understand why I was so sure. I can’t doubt that feeling though, there’s no denying it. But, I can’t help thinking that maybe I should have died then. Or maybe I did, spiritually, and I haven’t been the same since I turned 16.

“Why are you choosing to do this?” 17 says, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. “Explain to us why you decided that it’s okay to cut yourself.”

I look down at the razor for a moment. Mentally going through the list of reasons I’ve come up with in my head. None of them sound decently reasonable really, nothing that would convince them that I’m mentally fit to make a decision like this. But I’ll just say whatever, because in the end it won’t matter to me what they think.

“I am… so tired. I am so tired and you all know it. Look, this is adulthood. It’s bound to be stressful as hell. And I get it. But I feel like in the end, it’s not worth it. And it won’t be worth it. It has come to the point where I can’t picture a future that I’m aiming for, or even a future I want. I don’t want anything from this life anymore. But it’s not like I’m trying to kill myself. So that’s an improvement, right?”

They all look between each other.

“I guess,” 15 finally says.

“But, why cut yourself?” asks 16. “I get that we made the decision to sacrifice our wants for the bigger picture. I get that we never liked the bigger picture anyway…”

“And that it has cost us our mentality on multiple occasions,” continues 17. Referring to the many mental breakdowns I’ve had in the last two years.

“Right. But you did put yourself up for this. So you have to deal with the consequences,” 16 finishes off.

“This is me dealing with the consequences,” I say.

“By cutting yourself?” asks 10.

I sigh. This is harder to explain than it seems. Let me try some other way. “You know what happens when you cut yourself?”

“You bleed a lot?” interrupts 10.

“Not really. It’s just going to be a simple line, no longer than 5cm. Not too deep. It’s just a scratch on the surface of the skin, that will completely heal within a week. I would barely lose blood from a scratch that small so it’s not going to do much damage or cause a lot of pain. But what I’ll gain from it is a sense of serenity.”

“Serenity?” asks 10.

“It means peacefulness. The physical pain will be more demanding than the emotional one. My body will focus more on healing my skin rather than making more thoughts that I can’t withstand. My pulse rate will slow down, blood pressure lower… So my mind will go blank, and I’ll feel tired enough that it will make it easy for me to sleep. Which is what I want, in the end: peaceful sleep. I want to fall asleep easily without waking up every hour or two because my mind won’t stop thinking too hard.”

“And you tried all the other options?” asks 16.

“What?” I reply.

“Eating healthy? Exercising? Meditating? Doing things to relieve stress?” says 16.

“Talking to someone about it? Opening up to your closest friends? Seeking help?” says 15.

“Going to therapy? Seeing a doctor? Sleeping earlier? Setting your body clock? Decreasing work load?” says 17.

“Well… not really,” I reply sheepishly.

Up until now, 12 has been sitting quietly, which is really odd for her, but to this she snorts, “Typical of you. Avoiding all the sensible solutions and jumping right into the worst of every situation.”

The rest of them turn to her in surprise.

“What? What she’s thinking of doing is stupid. We’re all thinking it, but not saying it,” she turns to look at me intently. “Do you know why we held off for so long from doing this? It’s because it is socially unacceptable. Do you know why it’s socially unacceptable? Because it is unhealthy. Sure, skin will heal but your mentality won’t. Once you make the first cut, you’ll want to make more. You’ll convince yourself that it’s your coping mechanism and before you know it will become an addiction.”

“It’s not drugs,” I counter. “It’s not nicotine. There are boys my age, even younger ones, getting through the stress by smoking. They get away with it; they live their lives a little easier. I don’t get to have that liberty because- “

“You’re a girl?” 12 interrupts, “A girl who doesn’t want to throw away perfectly healthy lungs for momentary serenity? Addiction is a serious issue for a reason. You of all people should know better, understand better than we do. You would think that two years would make you wiser rather than stupider.”

10 nods along with her, 15 looks away again and 16 looks back and forth between me and 12. She can’t decide on whose side she wants to believe in. I guess that’s basically the fault in me, because at 16 I didn’t have the confidence to stay true to anything. I was always so torn between who I was, who I would be and who I could’ve been. But who I could’ve been was never a part of the conversations. I was still trying to understand why I’ve outlived my bone-deep prediction.

17-years-old me holds great sorrow in her eyes and hugs 12-months-old me tightly. The dilemma rendering her speechless and indecisive.

12 continues on, “Look around you. You have set everything up, this is why you’re here again. All alone. You haven’t gotten any better!”

“I did!” I burst out. “I did. Don’t you think for one second that I didn’t try. I tried. Yes, I set everything up. Yes, I made the sacrifice and it has cost me greatly. But I agreed to live with it the moment I turned 18. But don’t think I was going to give up completely without fighting back. I worked on making myself better, for months! It took me 4 months to get better. To get myself out of the depression and suicidal tendency that I’ve been living with for years. And what? It took less than a month for it all to come back to me. How?” my voice breaks.

17-years-old me starts rubbing my shoulder as my body starts shaking slightly. I feel a dull ache in my chest.

I take a deep breath and stare down 12-year-old me, “It’s not fair. But it is what it is. I get that you’re trying to be noble, but I am no longer who I used to be. In order for me to get through this I can’t be the same as before, I won’t be able to survive it. That’s why the depression came back too easily.

As of this moment, I am strained as hell. I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to debate the morality, the consequences or anything more. I just want to sleep! So I’ll draw a line with this razor, hoping to numb my mind. And if you can’t handle it, I suggest you cover your eyes and shut your mouth.”

I reach over for the razor but realize it’s no longer on the bed at where I left it. I look around for the culprit to find that 12-months-old me has it. I gently try to pry it out of her hands but the damage has been done. Blood is welling up in her hands and she’s begins to cry. I remove the razor, placing it away from her reach. I take her small hands in mine and kiss them gently.

Softly, I say, “It will heal with time, like it never existed in the first place. But for me, time won’t heal my anguish as easily.” When she looks down at her hands, the wounds are gone. She looks back up to me and our eyes are in contact. I feel… empty.

I kiss her on the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” I say into her forehead, then lean away, “but you guys have to go. There’s nothing more you could do.”

I take the razor and expose my left wrist. No, not there. I move up my arm until I stop just below the inside of my elbow. Slowly, I push the tip of the razor into the skin. It stings… but doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Then blood slowly fills the hole I made.

Who’s gonna stop me now?

I can’t explain what comes over me, but I don’t want to stop there. I give in to the impulse and place the tip again to the same spot and carefully drag it a millimeter across my skin. I repeat the motion until it becomes a line of red.

Strange. My breath is even and steady. There’s no dull ache in my chest. I am not thinking of anything, or want to think of anything. And I don’t feel guilty, not even the slightest bit. I just feel… drowsy.

The Edge.

I know you know my name.
That’s far as I know about what you know about me.

And I called you.
I know you know I called you.
No one else knows I called you.
I called you 52 days ago.

52 days ago.
I was sitting on the edge of the world.
Dangling my legs into the abyss.
Inching closer and closer to the void…
But leaning back to…

Where was I going to go?
What was I going to do?
I knew I wanted to fall off the edge
But couldn’t understand why I was thinking of you.

All I was thinking was of you.
It was you.
Just you.
You, smiling.
You, laughing.
You, loving.
You, caring.
You, glowing.
You, breathing.
You…

Me, burning.
Me, falling.
Me, trying.
Me, fighting.
Me, dying.

Me wanting…
To be like you.
To be with you.
To be like you.
To be me the way you are you.

I know you know I called you.
But only I know why.

I was close to falling off the edge
But before I left forever, there was one more thing I wanted to try.

To talk to you.

I wanted to be me.
The way I used to be.
Curious, straightforward and confident.

I called you.

I pressed call.
With each passing second my heart beated faster and faster.
And when you answered
So quickly,
So unexpectedly,
I froze
At the sound of your voice.

I wanted to end the call.
But I wanted to fight through this.
So I spoke.
I told you my name.

I didn’t ask what I wanted to ask you.
But I covered the call to make it seem logical and intentional.
Like I was actually calling as if you were anyone.
But at the end of the call,
It became clear to me
You weren’t anyone.
My hands were trembling,
My breath shaking,
And adrenaline was coarsing through me.

How did you…?
Why you?

I don’t know.
And I wish I didn’t care any longer.
Because I don’t want you.
I want me.
I want me more than I want you.

Calling you
I found me.
It wasn’t the words you said.
It was the my actions that speak.

And I walked away from the edge.

One More Day

Hey. It’s the 3 years Anniversary of JarOfDarkStars!

This is a huge deal for me and to celebrate I wrote a story that is also a huge deal to me. It’s a reflection of one my darkest time that this blog helped me come through. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story.

---

---

---

It’s like the world stopped spinning for one second. One very long second. As if the Universe wants to see what I’m about to do, and it wants a good view of it.

---

I’ve just shut the door to my bedroom behind me. After a second of hesitation, I slowly lock the door. Shutting away the rest of the world. Now I’m all alone. Really alone. And it’s just going to be me. Me and the Universe.

For a moment, I fight back the overwhelming emotions of what I’m about to do. Once I’m on the clear, I move to place the bottle of sleeping pills on my desk and grab a notebook and a pencil. Settling on the bed, I flip through it for a fresh page.

Where do I start?

“Are you really going to do this?” I lift my head up towards my dressing table to look at the mirror. Staring back at me is me. The longer I stare, the less I see myself and just see an empty face. The spirit of a person usually outshines their body but all I can see of myself is a worn out shell. The bags under the eyes, that are more felt than visible. The hollowness of my cheeks more noticeable in this dim lighting. Once there was a time where I believed I had beauty, best pronounced when I smiled. Except, now I don’t know how I ever managed to manifest that smile. I seem to have lost it, a very long time ago.

Focusing back on the page, I make a start. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for taking my own life.

I know this must be really shocking for you, but I couldn’t take it any longer and I didn’t know how to express what I feel. This “feeling”. This overwhelmingness that has taken over my mentality and shattered it into oblivion. Because I have been fighting against my depression for years, but in the last month it has come to a climax I can no longer find the strength to fight against.

My love for you guys was my strength, though that love has twisted to lethal because my love for you was killing me. My love for you was torturing me because it was forcing me to live. Even when I didn’t want to or I couldn’t live any longer. But I felt obliged to, in order to keep the ones I loved happy. At the expense of my own inner peace, sanity, and happiness, because I couldn’t fathom being the cause of your depression. To place you in the same state as I am- “

“Really? And killing yourself is going to accomplish just that, don’t you think?”

This time when I look up, the mirror reflection is a lot closer. Though this time, my entire body is seen on the outside of the mirror. Standing, cross-armed, in front of the dressing table. My reflection is not exactly the same, with cheeks a little chubbier and the face a lot rounder. She’s staring at me expectantly, waiting for my answer.

I open my mouth to respond, then shut it. I’ve already gone through this dilemma for the past month. Fought back against the thought of conflicting pain to my loved ones long enough to be alive today. But today, I made my decision. My final decision. And I can’t live another day through the torture just because of the doubt. I made a pact to go through with this no matter what.

Ignoring her, I continue to write. “But it has come to the point where I can no longer hold everyone up. I feel lost and too far gone to be found. I can’t see a future where I’m happy, I can’t even see past a day. And my fears have consumed me whole. That’s why I can’t do this anymore.”

“You don’t have to do this; you know? No one’s actively forcing you to be anything you don’t want to be.”

This time she’s kneeling on the floor against the bed. She looks so much younger, probably 14 or 15.

“I mean, you’re 18. Practically an adult. You can do whatever you want to do. Legally. The world is yours.”

I sigh out in exasperation. I remember that excuse. I used it shortly after my 15th birthday, another time when I considered suicide. I convinced myself then that I will have the freedom and benefits that only comes along with being legally an adult. Not knowing then that after high school, there was going to be a bigger, tougher world to fight against. Along with the ones in my head. I was naïve. If I had killed myself then I would have saved myself from this.

“But if you had killed yourself then, you wouldn’t have lived through some of the greatest moments in your life.”

“What’s the point anyway of them when I’ve reached right back to where I started?” I snap, despite the mental pact I made to not revisit old arguments.

“The point,” she says and leans closer, “is that it’s possible to come out of a dark place of mind and be happy. Remember the beach trip, the arts and crafts day and even your 16th birthday?”

Images flood my mind of these memories. Memories I’ve pushed so far back in my mind I almost forgot existed. It feels like it was so long ago since I’ve been as happy, to the point where I don’t even understand how I was able to feel it back then. Now that I think about it, there have been days where I worked so hard to be happy, and felt proud that I’ve accomplished it. But I can’t seem to remember the last time I was happy, or even content. That alone tears me apart. I’ve lived long enough in my own skin to know how this’ll play out in the end. Frankly, I think silence is better than repetitive depression cycles.

“I’m not doing this again. I’ve made up my mind,” I declare.

“But-”

“I don’t care!” I cut her off.

Refocusing back to the page, “I want it to be clear that it’s not your fault, or anyone’s fault in particular. It’s of my own doing and my responsibility alone. You have been the best parents I could ever ask for, but a part of me has always been wrong and I haven’t been able to grow out of it as hard as I tried. There has always been a part of me that’s broken. And it’s like the world doesn’t care for the rest of me that’s whole but likes to poke and prod on my weakness. No matter how hard I try to be different, better, something or someone will always hold my broken parts against me. Every time.”

“So what? You’re just going to stand there and let them mess with you?” the voice sounds different, slightly higher in pitch.

“Go away.” Not even bothering to look up this time.

“No! What is wrong with you?” she sits on the bed and grips the hand I’ve been writing with.

“Hey! Let go.”

“No. What is wrong with you? You’re just going to give up?” twelve-year-old me is staring me down.

I continue to try to tug my arm back, but she keeps a strong grip on it. “Let. Go. Of me.”

“This is not you. This is not us. The person we are would never give up over anything as stupid as this. Remember? Pain is only temporary and time will heal. Time will always heal.”

I couldn’t hold it back any longer, the tears began to roll down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing left to fight for.”

“You fight for us! You fight for change, for the better. For people who can’t even fight for themselves,” She bursts out. Then eases and places her other hand gently on my shoulder, “You are much stronger than you know. You can fight through anything. You know better. Death isn’t better. There’s so much you’ll miss out on if you give up on yourself now.”

No doubt. No backing out. No doubt. No backing out. Pulling my arm free from her grasp, I continue, “I’m sorry, once again, for disappointing you. For being weak enough to give in to my darkness. I wish it hadn’t come to this. I wish I had been braver to speak up about it. I wish I wasn’t so afraid to cause you pain but I don’t know what else to believe. I tried everything, but everything wasn’t working out for me.

I love you. Know that I have always loved you, no matter what.

I’m sorry.”

“What did I just say?”

Getting off from the bed, I head over to take the sleeping pills. With the bottle in my hand, I move towards the bathroom.

Twelve-year-old me jumps up after me and gets in my way, “No, stop! Stop! Listen to me. Listen to me.”

She blocks every step I take to the bathroom. Moving her further back until her back hits the door and she has no room to move.

“Just hear me out! Okay? Once you walk in there, you’re basically saying ‘Okay, that’s it. All these years I’ve spent alive was for nothing.’ You’ll end your story before it has even begun. There’s so much that you’ll miss out and that is not right. This is not right. None of this is. And you know it. You think killing yourself will do you a favor? Stopping everything just because it got too hard? You didn’t quit when you learned to play the guitar, you didn’t quit when you learned how to swim even when you almost drowned twice. In fact, now you’re an amazing swimmer. And what does that have to do with the world and being a better person? Nothing. But you love it. And doing what you love makes you feel alive. Keeps you alive. So instead of following and doing everything that makes you want to die, do the things that make you feel alive. Because this is right. And you’re not a quitter. You’re a fighter.”

The tears are flowing steadily. I am beginning to doubt. I am doubting. Should I back out? No. I can’t do this anymore. No more inner wars.

I push past her. Upon placing my hand on the doorknob, I freeze at the sound of her voice.

“Please.” The voice so childish and fragile. Behind me stands a six-year-old version of me. “Please, don’t go.”

My hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. Her huge eyes are staring up at me, embedded with fear. My eyes widen.

“Please,” she begs, “don’t go. I’m afraid of the dark. If you go, they’ll take you away. Mommy said there are no dreams in the dark. And daddy said to always follow your dreams. If you go, I won’t ever be able to follow my dreams. And I really really really want to. I’ve been a good girl, I deserve it. And you do too.” She runs over and wraps her arms around my legs. Her huge eyes looking up at me hopefully. Quietly, she whispers, “Could you live? Live for one more day.”

It’s like the world stopped spinning for one second. One very long second. As if the Universe wants to see what I’m about to do, and it wants a good view of it.

The longer I stare at her, the worse my breathing becomes. Until all my breath has been robbed and I’m fighting to have them back. I’m fighting to breathe again. I’m fighting to breathe again.

I’m fighting to breathe again.

Dropping to my knees, I let go of the bottle. My entire body is shaking, breaking apart. Blood rushing through my veins. My heart pumping so hard with agony. My mind screaming with questions, accusations, and shame. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?

“It’s okay,” three-year-old me speaks gently. She tries to wipe the tears from my face. “Pwease, stop cwying. Evewething will be okay.”

Stroking my hair, she says it repeatedly until I have calmed down enough. Then she takes my hand and leads me away to the bed. I climb into and cover myself. Closing my eyes, putting all of my focus away from thinking and just onto breathing. Once my breath steadies out, I open my eyes.

Looking back at me are the same eyes. Situated in the plump little face of three-months-old me. She stares at me intently and reaches out with her little hands. I offer my hand and she takes my index finger into her hand, then pulls it in to suckle it. She pulls it away from her mouth and using her other hand, tries to pull my fingers apart. I watch in wonder.

I almost tried to kill you.

She starts to get agitated and cries. I pull her in closer and try to calm her with some lullabies. Soon she calms down and sleeps in my arms. Drowsiness takes over me and soon I fall asleep too.

---

I wake with a start. Someone is knocking on the door. I sit up and look wildly around.

“Wake up, honey! You’re gonna be late for school!” My mum calls out.

“I’m awake,” I yell in response.

“Okay, hurry on down for breakfast.” Then I hear her footsteps lead away from the door.

I look around the room in confusion. It looks different, or maybe I’m seeing it through different eyes. I see a bottle on the floor in front of the bathroom door. Slowly, the memory of last night washes over me. I look down for baby me but find a brown teddy bear instead. I sigh and lay back down on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling for a while, I just breathe. One more day.

Sitting In the Dark.

It’s been a long day.

She enters her room and locks the door behind her. At the sound of the click, she immediately sags against the door, eyes closed. In her head, she counts up to ten and back down again. Why?

“Why?” She asks out loud to no one in particular. Sort of.

She pushes herself off the door, closes the lights and settles herself on the floor next to the window. Leaning her back on the wall, she waits. Waiting for what? She doesn’t know. She does this often. Sometimes, it’s in tears. Other times, in quiet surrender to her demons. Or in truce with peace. But today is different. No tears, no fears and no peace. Today, she doesn’t bring an answer. She brings a question. Why?

She relaxes and crosses her legs. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. If she focuses, she’d be able to catch what little light in the room, enough to make out objects. But if she over focuses, she’d see beyond the light and into further darkness. Can she see beyond darkness? She tries. She believes she can see beyond what has been seen. She believes in a lot of things. Unfortunately, she doesn’t believe enough in the one thing she needs to believe in.

“I know you’re there. Watching me,” she calls out to the air. “I know you’re there.”

But you don’t know who I am. Well, not completely. You sometimes believe – and sometimes not – in who I am.

“Please, talk to me,” she whispers.

I watch her. As of this moment, she’s not entirely sure. But she wants to try.

“You’re something.”

Okay. What else?

“You’re there, most of the time. You talk to me, I think. I can… feel your presence. I think I can hear you sometimes. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe I’m imagining all of it. Part of me believes though. What are you?”

You tell me, I whisper gently. I don’t need to whisper; I could scream it if I wanted to. But either way, she’ll hear it as weakly as her belief in me. My words do not reach her as sound but as slight intuitional nudges. Someday though, I hope it comes to the point where we share our thoughts without having to voice them out or without her difficulty in hearing me. I believe in her, always have and always will.

“You are… something. Someone. Me. Actually, the ghost of me.”

Close.

“You tell me things. Control me… help me. You’re like… a larger part of me.”

Good. What else?

“You have aspects of me. Ones I’ve lost, ones I’ve wanted.”

Are you sure? Even though the majority of what she said is true, I like to make her question everything she says. If she isn’t even convinced of her own words, then what will she believe?

She hesitates. “Yes.”

You’re wrong.

“No. I feel like they’re true. So, they’re true. I have a strong feeling about it.”

I smile from my place. I move so that I’m sitting in front of her. She can’t see me, only through me.

“I can feel your presence.”

Tell me. What aspects?

“Confidence, my confidence. Bravery, determination to set things right, openness, commitment, the fight in me that won’t back down… Passion! That’s the word. Um… the better part of me, I guess.”

The better part? What’s wrong with you if I’m the better part?

“I’m not confident. I run away from my problems. I have no motives, or I’m too lazy to commit to my motives. I can’t talk or socialize. I’m a coward. I’m a mess. But, you… you’re not. You’re me. You’re the me that I want to be. But I can’t.”

Smart girl. You’re smart and accepting, that counts. You’re a lot of things too, even without me. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

She smiles sadly. And whispers, “I don’t know how to be happy.”

I drop my smile. I know. But I don’t tell her that why she doesn’t know how to be happy is because she thinks she can’t. So what are you going to do about it?

“I need your help. I just need you to make yourself appear. So that I can see you and you can help me out,” she pleads. “Look, I know you’re there. Isn’t that enough? Please.”

I sigh and get up to lean against the desk. Crossing my arms, I wait. Come on, I believe in you.

“Impossible. Right. Okay.” She closes her eyes. “All I know is that I need you somehow. You’re the key to my happiness. I just don’t know what to do.”

Yes, you do. You’re just doubting yourself. Deep down you already know what to do. You already know. But I don’t tell her that. What I do say is, Okay.

“So… I’m feeling a bit better. Think I just found my answer. You. Somehow, I just need to connect to the ghost of me.”

I huff, unable to control my widening grin. No. You’re the ghost of me. And one day, you’ll see what I mean. Goodnight.

“Goodnight.”

I get up and turn to leave. If she’s not the one sitting in the dark, then it’s me who is. I disappear into her shadow. Not my rightful place as of now.

Inner Turmoil…

 

Before reading this, I suggest you read the 3 part short story of Her Fall… Into… The Arms Of Hope. The story you are about to read is sort of a continuation of it.

---

---

She’s gasping for breath. Exhausted, she trudges to the wall of the park and leans against it. She closes her eyes as she tries to regain a steady breath.

“Hello.”

“Aaaaahh!” she jumps in shock.

“If you plan on running off again, then let me assure you that you cannot outrun me.”

“Well, let’s see about that.” She turns around-

“I would not. It would be a waste of time and I will not be going anywhere.”

Realizing that she was too tired to run, she stays. “What do you want?”

“Nice to see you too. I heard a feeble little girl crying so I came by to check on her.”

“Hey, I’m not feeble,” she says defensively. Causing him to smile.

“What did I told you?”

She doesn’t answer. Guessing what he’s here for; to gloat.

“You are incapable of getting better and getting back on the road. And now you are here. Alone and crying. Just like last time.”

“And last time I rejected you. I told you that I was gonna push people back on their roads and I did! So really you don’t need to be here. Goodbye.”

He frowns, knowing that she’s right. “I am not leaving.”

“So what do you want now?” she’s irritated. How can her day get any worse?

“You.” He says it plainly. There’s no affection behind what he said making her believe that he doesn’t want her in the way he wanted her before. But something far much worse. She can see it in his eyes.

She starts to fidget and waits for him to continue on.

“I want you dead.”

Her stomach drops. “What?! You- You want me dead? Wha- Why?” she stutters.

He takes a deep breath and steps closer to her. She moves back until she hits the wall behind her. Adrenaline courses through her as she decides whether she should run, call the police or fight him.

“Get away from me,” she whispers frightenedly.

“Not a chance. But I have good news for you.”

She just stares at him. Her stomach rolling.

“I will kill you painlessly and quickly so that you do not have to suffer.”

That doesn’t stop her heart from tightening. “Why? Why do you want to kill me?” she whispers.

“Because it has been too long…” as he speaks he comes closer and closer and she steps further and further away, “And I am tired of being lonely. Then I met you. And never felt any better since. You are just different from every other person I have met. You know?” He looks up at her, waiting for her to say something.

She slowly shakes her head. Waiting for him to register the fear in her eyes and leave her.

“There is just something about you. Something that I like. Something I want for myself.”

“You are not going to have me.”

“That! That right there. Playing hard to get. As well as your hidden darkness. It intrigues me.”

“Do I intrigue you enough for you to at least let me live?”

He barks a laugh. “Only if you choose me, be my queen and leave everything behind.”

She bites her lip. Her insides are still turning but her breath is now steady. She could run now and get to safety. But it’s likely that she can’t outrun him. If she can’t think of a way out of here then she could possibly persuade him enough to change his mind. Or do whatever it takes to walk away alive. Anything, but become his or dead.

“You sure?”

“Certain. And you are not going anywhere either.” He smiles. He lifts an arm over his head and he snaps his fingers. Right before her eyes, a cloud of darkness drifts down from the sky and surrounds them. Swirling around and around until she can no longer see past them. He trapped her.

Any hope she had quickly evaporated. Right in this moment she starts to believe that today will be her last. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably, so she shoves them in her pocket. She can’t think straight.

“Do not be scared, love,” he smiles. He starts towards her.

“Wait.” She holds up her hand. “Can I…”, fishing for something smart out of her mind, “… fix my hair?”

He stops, looking confused. She unties her hair from her ponytail and allows their waves to fall past her shoulders. She ruffles her hair.

He’s staring now at her. Frozen. That’s what he looks like. And it clicks in her that maybe there is a way out of it. Sort of.

“Sorry. If I were to die, I’d like my hair down. I know it’s weird. Oh, and it’s kind of getting warm here.” She slid her coat off and tied it loosely around her waist. His lips twitched as he watched her movements.

He continues towards her as she stands still. She tries to steady her breath and waits for what’s about to come.

She looks down. “Can I ask you a question?” She asks.

“Yeah sure.” He says, so close to her now.

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“Maybe.”

“What is it?”

“Reveal to me your true darkness.”

She breathes deeply in. Then out. She doesn’t have any other options. She can do this. She’s strong enough to tap into her darkness long enough to free her, then go back to her innocence. She tries to connect to her inner darkness. The part of her that is attracted to him. What’s the harm? No one’s watching.

He places his hands on her waist. As she exhales, she raises her arms and wraps it around his shoulders. She leans forward until her forehead is pressed against his nose. Her heart skitters and she shivers.

“Okay,” she whispers back. She feels much more comfortable. Something about tapping into her inner darkness makes her feel dangerous. Powerful. She has power over him, due to his weakness, his love for her.

“You’re pretty warm for someone who’s coldblooded,” she says.

It causes him to chuckle. That’s a good sign. He begins to relax. He slowly traces his hand up her back and down again. Even though she shouldn’t be thinking of this, it feels good.

“Do you not like this better?” He breathes into her ear.

Yes. No. She meant no. But she can’t disappoint him. “Yes.”

His hand stops at the small of her back and gently pulls her in closer. She allows him. They are so close she can feel his breaths. His chest against hers. She lifts her hand and strokes it at the back of his head playfully.

This feels much better than she expected. She is actually loving this. No, the darkness in her is loving this.

He presses his lips against her forehead. Then moves him lips down her nose. Over her left eye, her left cheek and then her jaw line. Under her jaw, down her neck causing her to lift her head. Until his lips reach her collarbone.

She pulls him slightly away. When she finally makes eye contact with him, she sees a slight sparkle in his eyes.

“Have you… changed your mind?”

He doesn’t say anything. She got through to him, enough to make him consider her life.

She smiles up at him and his gaze becomes something else. Loving.

And it pains her to see this. Because it is so right, but he isn’t.

“Stay with me.” He whispers.

And she is actually considering it. She feels a slight tugging in her heart. A small war in her head. Her goodness and her darkness. And her darkness is winning.

Until she hears someone call her name…

TO BE CONTINUED…

---

---

A peak into my darkest star.

A Little Action With A Big Lesson.

The thought of people not liking me used to scare me. Then, I learnt otherwise.

I have 3 young sisters under the age of 9. Still kids by behaviour. My family relatives are staying with us. And along with the package came a young boy too and strangely a 12-year-old girl who enjoys their determination to have fun (or as I like to think, leave the biggest mess possible).

I leave their room for an hour and come back viewing at a playground with the combination of mess and the screaming abominations (that’s what I think of the kids). They annoy me, as you may have picked up. Yet I try and not to hurt them because as irritating as they can be… they’re worse when they’re upset. (And for the parents who were expecting the “because I love them” then just know I have a soft heart too, can’t let anyone other than me hurt them). Anyway, here comes my point.

So it’s 2 am, I’m on that time of the month where I suffer horrible cramps on my lower body. I’m cranky and in pain (so extra cranky). And these kids decided to take a field trip into my room. After coming out of the bathroom and surviving the raging battle that occurs in my stomach, I found these kids flying all around, screaming at each other and sitting on the randomest places. Amidst all this was a mess which they gladly left. (I didn’t clean my own room for nothing.) But since they didn’t understand the rage that was building in my heart, I had to express it by kicking them out of the room. 

So when they saw my rage, they all stopped what they were doing (frightened in fact). I yelled at them to get out. My nine-year-old sister fled (smart). My 4-year-old twin sisters required me to grab their arms and pull them out of the door. They hardly resisted and tried to not come back in as they knew how dangerous I can be. 12-year-old missy thought she was old enough to have authority. (Proved her wrong). I grabbed her by her shirt and yanked her out of the room, she tried to resist but I’m too strong for her. (Thank goodness that I played sports and worked out). But that’s not the worst part.

2 am and my parents have work which they must wake up at 5 am for. My father told me to shut them up and put them back in their rooms. The girls were easy because they did it anyway. However, there was the little boy…

I asked him to go inside the room. He refused. I commanded him again but he doesn’t. I stomped towards, grabbed his arm and dragged him. Though he didn’t resist, when I got him on the other side of the door he tried to go back. I extended my arm and had my hand on his small chest. He couldn’t get through me. Though he didn’t stop. I kept asking him, “Where are you going?!” and “What do you want to do?!”. But instead, he screamed as he can’t get through. He screams louder and louder until his siblings came along to see what’s going on. I let him go so that they can handle him themselves. The boy’s eyes were tinged with pink and he did something I would never predict. He threw punches on my arm, then he walked off.

I have dealt with enough, so I walked back into my room and let the boy be.

Alone, I was listening to music and stuff that I usually do. I realised something. It wasn’t information or a memory I just thought off, no it was an odd feeling that caught me. And not so much of a feeling but the lack of presence of a feeling. A slight emptiness, but in a good way (like a weight taken off). Realising that… I no longer feel… worthless. (Is that strange?)

Throughout that whole day, I was on 4 social media sites and 2 communication apps trying to please people (or at least comfort myself) to prove that I matter a lot more than I believe or to feel less felt out (I’m still not sure which or whatever this hollowness is). None of it helped, but it’s a habit that I do every day. Then came along the event of being a responsible adult and taking control of the kids. And something sets loose. A knot of my many insecurities loosens and no longer tightens my heart. In this small incident I realise that no matter how I childish I feel, I am much older than I am. To take charge and not let emotions interfere with what I did. (Maybe some rage but I controlled it). To push the kids to show who I am (the boss) but also not push them off the edge and hurt them unnecessarily. And distinguish my feelings as not being as childish as the kids. That was the most important one.

I feel a little more grown. And for now, I no longer feel insecure about who I am. Because I know. And if I can’t let the world know, then I should at least myself know for certain. That should be enough. It’s strange how this little action taught me a big lesson. I needed it.

What You Don’t See.

I’m walking down the street, with my earphones on and listening to my favourite song.

And I’m alone, as always. If it is not self-explanatory, then let me tell you that I have no best friends of my own. When you’re alone most of the time, entertaining yourself becomes a habit because nothing is ever interesting when you have no one to laugh with. So I’m out at this time of day just so that I can leave the house. Also, so I can go see what the year group girls are doing on their hangout which I wasn’t invited to. That’s sad of me, but really I got nothing else to do.

It’s a little windy, just the way I like it. The sky clear and the sun is high in the sky. In this kind of weather, I would love to be dancing down the street for the fun of it. Or just run as fast as I can, even though I’m not fit at all.

But I don’t because I am too shocked. Instead, I am staring dumbfounded at the sky. Because the crazy thing is, the sky is now purple! The sky is purple? The sky is purple! What is going on? I am so freaking out internally yet I’m frozen externally. Like what can you do?

I hear a strange noise behind me and so I turn towards the source. At the end of the street, I see these weird yellow creatures crawling towards me. They’re like yellow, deformed scorpions the size of buses, just crawling as if they do not know how to use their legs. The mere sight of them creeps me out. My heart rate speeds up, suddenly, and I have a strong urge to run. I run in the opposite direction and head towards the year group girls as a first thought. As I run it feels like I’m becoming lighter and faster. Each step becomes lighter and lighter until I no longer step on the ground. And I am floating.

I can fly! So I try to fly towards the park. Which isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

In a matter of seconds, I reach the girls. They are more or less freaking out and screaming for their lives as these creatures are heading towards them. I land and try to gather them together. One of the girls screams and points behind me, shouting “Look out!”.

I turn around and see a ball of acid heading towards us. Out of reflex, I bring my arms up stick them out to cover me. Totally not expecting of what happens next, a surge of energy shoots out of my hand and acts as a shield which intercepts the ball of acid. Which is so cool.

I struck out my hand and another surge of energy hits the creature with so much force that it flies off. The creature strikes the ground hard and dies. I fly off the ground and using my new power I round up on the other creatures. Saving the girls and killing the creatures.

HONK! HONK!

A car honks at me and I am immediately brought back to reality. The reality where the sky is blue, there are no yellow creatures attacking the city and I do not possess superpowers.

I make it to the park and find the girls sitting in a circle on the grass talking. I walk up to them.

“Hi, everyone.”

They all reply with their greetings.

I ask the closest one to me, “Whatcha doing?”

“Oh, we’re just hanging out and stuff.” She turns back to them and they continue with their hangout.

I stand and smile for a bit then I turn to leave. Of course, they don’t notice that I’m leaving or they would’ve possibly said something, but they didn’t. And I never mattered because they didn’t at least ask me to join them while I was there.

As I walk away, I think back to the time where I saved their lives, fictionally. Oh, wait. You must be confused, so let me explain. When you’re alone most of the time, entertaining yourself becomes a habit because nothing is ever interesting when you have no one to laugh with. So I entertain myself with the creation of fictional worlds where I possess superpowers and I am the hero of the day. Like I would like to be in reality.

Madness…

Your voice… Your eyes… Your tears… Swirling around in my mind in never ending circles. They swirl and swirl and I’m anticipating for when they slowly fade away. It’s not happening yet, and I’m waiting. Still waiting. Still waiting…

Warm night, long day. It was just a day, but it hasn’t ended yet. And it seems like it doesn’t want to end yet. Because I’m reliving every moment. Every crucial moment. Every single moment where I was with and I wasn’t with you. Every little scene where you did something small… And I can’t help but feel… anxious. What did they mean? What did they mean?

Nothing. They meant nothing, okay? Now go to sleep.

Sleep… Are you sleeping now? Or are still thinking about today just like me? Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Of course, I hurt you… I hurt you… I hurt you… Shouldn’t have hurt you… Shouldn’t… But did… My heart… Aches… You did nothing wrong, nothing. I made the mistakes. I made them. So stop blaming yourself and start blaming me.

That didn’t help. And that’s not going to help. Just go to sleep.

Are you awake now crying? Have you been crying? I am the cause of your tears. I am… sorry… sorry… sorry… I am a… bad… bad… person and I don’t deserve to live. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I was the villain the whole time. And I believed to be a good person… what a lie.

The lie, the truth, and everything. Shouldn’t matter right now. It’s 4 AM. Sleeeeeeeeeep.

I really want to let you know… I just want to apologise. I just want to apologise. Apologise with every being I am. But you’re asleep… or worse, awake… restless because of me… because of me… And you don’t want to hear from me… And you don’t want to speak to me… You want to forget my existence… Push it to the back of your mind and hopefully, never see it again… Me too… Me too. I want to reject myself as much, if not more, as you reject me. You hate me… You hate me… I hate me… I am rejected… A rejection. A reject.

Stop it.

I feel bad…

Really? No kidding. Please, sleep.

I saw your eyes water… shimmering like the many tiny pieces of glass, once you shatter it. I shattered you… I shattered you… I shattered you… The guilt is shattering me… And I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep with this guilt. I don’t deserve to sleep after what I did to you. I don’t deserve to be even human. I am a monster.

That is not true. Just work it out tomorrow, please. It may seem bad now, but it’ll get better after some sleep. Please, just sleep. Rest that mind.

I am a monster. That word is now circling around and around through my mind. Now realising, my thoughts won’t fade away… No, they won’t… They’re just getting started. Getting stronger and stronger and stronger AND STRONGER AND STRONGER AND STRONGER. Faster and faster. More and more. Deeper and deeper. Tears streaming just as fast but much, much less painful than what my mind is consuming me with tonight. I’m thinking and I’m thinking and I…

Can’t stop. Can’t sleep tonight. Fine.

I can’t sleep tonight… And that realisation just breaks apart every thread of my internal strength as a living being. I am no longer human…

I made you cry. I broke your heart, your heart, your heart, your broken heart. Broke… your heart. Shredded it. Stabbed it. Crushed it. Shattered it. Burnt it. Scared it. Hurt it. Damaged it. I did it… I did it… You cried. Tears of pain… Tears of pain… Tears of agony… I brought you pain… I brought you agony… I tore you apart. I did it. I regretfully did it. I viciously did it. And you trusted me… You trusted me when no one did…You believed in me… You loved me… For me. I AM A MONSTER. Me, of all people, should have never done that… But I did. I did it. I did. I did it. I full-time regretfully did it. I’m meant to bring a smile to your face. Not pain… Never pain… Never pain… Shame on me… Shame on me. No one should ever like me. No one should ever love me. No one should ever trust me. I’m not human…

I’m not human. I’m not human… I am not human. I am a monster… NO. I am worst than that. I am the stench of burning flesh in the depths of hell. I am the most rotten soul to ever roam the Earth. I am the ugliest excuse of…

Why is my heart beating? Why is it still beating?

Gosh, I am nothing. I am nothing. I am sorry. Sorry for your pain, sorry for your tears. Sorry for your heart. Your delicate heart. Sorry for my actions. Sorry. Sorry… I am sorry. So so sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sory. Orry. sorry sory… sorry sorr soyr… sory sory orry orys…

Aaaaaghhh… I can’t take it anymore. I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. My thoughts are carzyy . Sos so csraiei. It is driving me insane. It is driving me mad. These thoughts and feelings are madness. Madness, I tell you, MADNESS. MADENNING. MADDING. MAD. MADNESS. MADNESS. MADNESS!!!

Madness… Mad… ness…

Madness…

The pillow is soaked up from my tears.
I’ve been twisting and turning over and over again.
Consumed by all of my fears.
I am no longer… no longer… human.

---

---

For a similar work, check out Shattering…