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I thought I saw a slight tremor in the air,
A warning, curling round molecules
The noises, motionless
Flashing from separate parts of the crowd
As we swam through arms and legs,
Still as though in ice or plastic
Waiting for darkness to arise.
It seems silly of me to be saying that when it comes to comparison whether it is the things inside my head or the gray, rainy, cooold weather that is making me more depressed, it would most definitely be the latter. That is logical, right? I live in the country infested with SAD (= seasonal affective disorder aka winter blues, yo). It's so dark for so long here I have become used to the fact that people are just... sad, for no reason. So why not me?
I haven't cut in... a week and a half I think. The LIAR on my right wrist has faded but I'm scared it'll scar like that. It, of course, makes me flirt with the idea of cutting over it but hey, I already did that a week ago and did it do anything to the letters? NO. I'll get something from the pharmacy to help it fade away along with some other scars I have, even though they're minor and only I can really see them (unless I have been in the shower or swimming or doing any physical excercise, which makes them stand out all pink and nice going HEY NOTICE ME!).
It makes me ache that I have socially let myself drop into a stereotype. I don't think I've thought of it before until our Biology class last Friday when we were cutting out pieces of onion with scalpels to look at the epidermis layer with a microscope --- one of the girls in my class held the packet of scalpel blades up and said to her lab partner: "Wanna have an emo party?" after which she pretended to be slitting her wrists. I was this close to screaming at her. It was difficult enough for me to have all that in front of me, sharp pieces of glass, packets of scalpels, forceps... *sigh*
But ignorance hurts, people.
It's like someone tore my heart out and dipped it in boiling water while it was still connected to me so that I felt all of the pain.
I've done pretty good in the medication front. Which is always improvement when it's me. Meds and me just don't go together. Life is just too damn difficult without having to feel like a pill-popping psycho. (Or knowing this is something that I'll be hooked to for years and years and maybe for life...).
I am seeing my darling in 5 days. Which is major good news and makes me all smiley. But it also means loads of schoolwork and my body isn't that good with the stress and pressure added to the fact a fraction of my teachers (meaning one teacher, but she takes up the space of more than one...) do not appreciate me going so I try and be perfect in everything and it makes me stress more. Go figure.
So I'm doing some baking to get rid of some stress since I couldn't go to dance class today because I HAD TO DO SCHOOLWORK. Gah. Doesn't matter. I'll bet a prize for all this. I get to spend two and a half weeks with my babydoll =3
The Fairy Finds the Food
He grinds his teeth together, the slight flash of pain etching through bone setting his nerves back on track. Around him, it is dark and humid, the air thick with a warm scent of oil mixed with turmeric and sweat, orange and lucid as it wafts through the cracks of the door, shut tightly but not tightly enough. His hands are tied over his head and the tingling loss of sensation sends his mouth open in silent cries that could be interpreted as laughter.
I told you I would get back to you.
The air trembles as he lets out a painful laugh — yes, this time it is laughter for certain, the short shocks in his chest accompanied with an up-and-down movement at the center of his neck are more than easy to detect even in the dark — while straightening his legs, blinking rapidly to rid his eyes of the film the oily air has set on them. The heat has made his bodily movements slow.
The door creaks open, a tower of light snaking its way through the air as though swimming through a liquid. He lets his jaws go, his mouth flapping open in search of oxygen as though he were already dead, his muscles letting go one stringy cell at a time.
Pale hands reach for the lock above his head to untie his wrists, the set of keys clanging against the shallow wall as his hands fall to his sides. He remains silent, holding his breath as he watches the shadowy movement of arms and hands and legs, standing out like neon lights as they grab at the neckline of his shirt, pulling him through the threshold.
Daddy has to go to work in the morning. And you have school.
Blinded by the surgical lights he listens to the sticky wet thuds of footsteps taken in front of him, the feet of a child, dancing around the stuffy room with his collar in her grasp. A hungry fairy like in the story. She made him read it every night for a month. The view is clearing out as his eyes grow accustomed to the sharp illumination spurred by fluorescent lights attached to the low ceiling. Light green curtains sway along the plastic floor, darker along the edge.
“Say it again, Daddy,” she sings out as her small feet come into view again, dangling over the table as she holds a long kitchen knife to the light, mesmerized by the turquoise glow. “Say it again. Please.”
I’m sorry, sweetie, but I can’t read it again.
“The sentence. At the end. Where the fairy finds the food.” She hops down, getting down on her knees as she inches him closer to the stove, oily splashes sounding off from the pot. She kicks at his shin playfully. “Come on, Daddy.”
He breathes in, watching the curtains play with the hot air. “It is in the heart of the house that you’ll find goods—“
He stops short as the blade runs along his side, twisting to fit beneath the flesh as tiny fingertips pull at the edge of the cut, curling his skin like a mat. His scream is stuck in his throat as his tongue waddles at the last of the words, a fish stuck in an empty bowl.
She sighs impatiently, wiping at her forehead with her wrist. “It is in the heart of the house that you’ll find goods, anything your heart may desire. You only need to find the correct cupboard. And a key to undo the lock,” she murmurs, a smile curling at her lips.
We’ll read it again tomorrow night. I promise.
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, R.L.W challenged me with "Pork rinds are not a food group" and I challenged R.L.W with "Include this or write your piece inspired by: "And in that moment I could see it, the heavy black disgust rimming his eyes like pieces of velvet"."
Fuck you, trigger
I am in serious need of a hug. Or a slap in the face. Or both, can't think of which one first. I feel dusty and old. I'm asleep and someone needs to wake me up. I was about to break down again tonight. I cried, sure. I'd searched for my razors in a slight panic several times today since I'd forgotten where I'd hidden them. I held them under the light just now.
You know that voice in your head that makes you second-guess things? That whisper that makes you think maybe, just maybe, you didn't deserve the happiness that was just brought to you on a silver (or maybe porcelain) plate. Maybe even the slight speck of happiness you worked so hard for --- maybe even that, ought to have gone to someone else.
These days that voice is louder for me.
It says I deserve a painful and agonizing internal death in a closed institute. That I'm a backward mess who is simply in people's way. That no matter how hard I work for things, no matter how long, I never get the appreciation I seek, never to mention the reward. No matter how good I do in exams or no matter how excellent my essays are I'll always be the "sick girl who was hospitalized and repeated a year". I'll always stick out. There will always be a teacher who will look at me with pitiful eyes and tell me to go "heal myself from my illness" and then take a shot at an easier school program because I do not have the strength for something better. For what I want.
It'll say I'm cold and heartless. A family-wrecker. A back-stabbing liar. A sick, sick creature that ought to be drowned in a tiny pool for extra discomfort in its last moments.
I was staring at my razors while I battled with the voice. With myself. I told myself that in 10 days I'll be happy again and the only tears will be good tears because I'll be in my darling's arms. And reminded myself about how these aren't worn out razors. They are sharp and powerful. I truly scared myself last time because I bled and bled, down my arm. And it's never been like that.
I put the razors back where they were. The voice can try and shut itself up because I'm not listening. I'm worthy of happiness. I deserve happiness. That is all.
We're reading the End of the Tether by Joseph Conrad in our English class. It made me cry today because I think I'm finally getting a grasp of what it really is about and we're close to the end now. It might have to do with the fact I've had to speed-read a lot for now since I have been sick. But this hit so close to home I felt like crying out in the full classroom:
"It is as if light were ebbing out of the world. Have you ever watched the ebbing sea on an open stretch of sands withdrawing farther and farther away from you? It is like this - only there will be no flood to follow. Never. It is as if the sun were growing smaller, the stars going out one by one. There can't be many left that I can see by this. But I haven't had the courage to loof of late..."