Like a portal through time

There’s this room here. Old photos are on the walls, even furniture, all from my childhood. It even has a similar smell, like that house scent of some place lived in where you walk in and you can almost sense the life lived between the walls. Everything is a lie though, painted over in sunflowers and filled with some kind of old regret and sadness. Maybe that’s something I brought with me. I’m not really sure.

I feel depressed here. It’s out in the flatlands, in this geographical blip of a place that’s entirely forgettable other than the cold and snow. You breathe outside and it feels frigid. Hurts almost. And I know it’s not just the cold, or the harsh winds that like to tear through the dying grass and the old, dilapidated houses. It looks like some place the apocalypse had its way with. Now all that’s left behind are husks and broken windows.

They’re both here, my parents. It’s like they never separated and I’m 12 again and we’re playing house. They even act it all out. So eager to please one another. I watch with a vacant expression. I stare out the window and feel my mind wander somewhere without me. I’m just looking. I’m just here, except I’m not. I don’t want to live that life over, but this house is like a fucking time warp that I just walked into, unknowingly. It makes sense now why she hasn’t let go, even after all this time. She’s living in the past every day in this house. It’s even in the kitchen with the bowls from the old house and the occasional knickknack collecting dust on the shelves.

There are even old blankets and photos of me everywhere. But none of him. Like she left him out to make a statement, except everything is his anyway. He’s there, in the movies on the shelves, in the bits of furniture he made. It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see, but I see it plainly, without difficulty. It’s lies, all those things she said, pretending to care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t believe me. She still loves him. And all I can think of is knowing that I know what his dick looks like just as well as she does, and that every time he brushes past me, my skin crawls and I feel like the bile in my stomach is going to melt all the way down, down to my feet, where it will make a puddle and disintegrate the wooden floor below me. Like the acid blood from Alien. Drip drip drip.

But it’s not that bad, she says. I wouldn’t know what it’s really like. Oh, but wouldn’t I? I just don’t speak it aloud, don’t type it out. Because I can’t. It’s stuck in my throat or in my hands, where my fingers won’t extend to press into the keys. The words died a long time ago. They’re just pictures now, playing in a loop, a slideshow that’s playing on the screen in my mind all this time. I’m tense, but it’s easy to hide. I have made away with secrets for a lifetime.

This place feels like some kind of museum; a monument to something I’m not quite understanding. Maybe it will make more sense tomorrow. Fuck, I don’t know.

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The greatest pain

I woke up sick in the middle of the night. There’s something about sickness that brings all your vulnerabilities to the surface. You’re miserable. You don’t want to move or get up at all. You’re trapped in blankets all day with a cold sweat that makes your skin shiny and damp. Makes fabric stick as you toss and turn. And you’re trapped there all day with your thoughts and your doubts and your fears.

I don’t have a television in my room. My bedroom is a sacred place. It’s where I lay and stare at the ceiling and think. There’s no sound but the white-noise whisper of a fan. And that’s just there to make sure that no other noises get in. This is my place, my chamber to intellectually decompress, to lay out all of the pieces of my life that I find distasteful and to ruminate.

Sometimes there’s a fantasy, either relived moment or one imagined; I can watch the pictures go by and sigh as I think of what is and what isn’t. It doesn’t matter here, that’s the real truth. It can be whatever I want it to be. It’s a powerful place, like a memory palace, but much more tangible. I look forward to the times when I lay in the blankets, alone, even when there’s a pain there.

I bring people here sometimes. It feels like a violation. I cleaned the blankets not long ago, but as I was skimming through a book, legs dangling over the side of my bed, a wayward hair tangled around my hand. It was light and blondish. I looked at it there, clinging to my hand. Sometimes doing the laundry can’t wash everything away. It’s a shame, that.

I don’t pine for this one in particular, but there is this dull ache of familiarity. The sensations were familiar but coming from the wrong person. It feels strange having them evoked and called upon that way, by this person who shouldn’t have that power. It felt alien and slippery, like something just out of my grasp. I wanted it yet I didn’t. I was open and yet I wasn’t.

I don’t actually like bringing people here. This is my space and I am stingy. I don’t want to share all the thoughts that I think here, I don’t want to share anything at all. It’s mine, all mine. Go away and don’t return. Take your slow touches with you, because they burn my skin and taunt me with what I don’t have. What I want to have from someone else, but not from you.

That’s the part that slowly kills you.

A perfect ending

I feel like I’ve pushed myself to some kind of unforeseen limit. I went down a rabbit hole a little too far, took some wrong turns, then wound up where I least expected. It’s come full circle, I guess. I wanted some kind of connection, I think. Not necessarily a real one, just something to tide me over until whenever it becomes too much again. It was too much a month ago. Two months ago. Maybe even six months ago.

I get this weird, lingering ache in my chest, a tenseness in my jaw. People touch me and I flinch and shy away. But there’s a longing, a deep awful longing, that never goes away. It stretches out forever, with its spindled, scarred fingers, clawing. Maybe it’s at my heart. My soul. Some deep part of me I’ve never given away to anyone. Can you give away everything and really give nothing away at all? How is that even possible? How fucked do you have to be for that to happen?

Yes, my fire. I think you called it that. Maybe that’s what it is: a fire out in a dark world, and I’m alone, sitting patiently in its flickering light. No one can come for you here, the voices say, no one at all.  I wait, linger. Waiting for the thing I desire to come walking by. Oh, how does it go again? I remembered it on the edge of a dream months ago, just a few words. Then today I stumbled upon it randomly, and it still hurts me somewhere like it did the first time I read it:

Remember me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I,
Once I was, wasn’t I? But not now. Not anymore. Everything feels like another slash, another wound, something to hide and cover and conceal because you don’t want to look weak. You don’t want them to know. They can’t know. They can never know.
It all felt like such a travesty. Like a rehearsed play that I had already seen, long before it was set in front of an audience. I knew what he would say, what he would do. Except it was so much worse in person. I don’t empathize very much, but I did then. It was all I could feel through the utter, complete indifference. I felt bad for you. I felt bad for your blown pupils and the way you looked at me. I felt like someone playing a part they weren’t supposed to play.
“I’m the wrong one,” I wanted to say. “I don’t have what you want… They took it all away.”
But it’s a lie. I just didn’t want to give it to you, and they were too weak to take it from me. It’s mine. I’m greedy and I want to keep it. I want that fire out in the dark somewhere, I need it. I need it to live. I’m sorry you don’t understand. You’re not the right one. It’s not that I hate you. It’s not that I don’t like you. I’ve just played this game too many times before. I’m apathetic and bored and you’re decent and I’m not, and that’s really all it boils down to. I’m doing you a favor, I promise.
That doesn’t mean it’s not sad. That doesn’t mean I don’t regret, because even a short time is better than nothing at all, isn’t it? But we had our time and I don’t know that we will have the chance for it again. I needed you to stand in the part for me, because what I really want isn’t coming any time soon, if ever.
I wanted to feel something, and I didn’t. I don’t know, does sadness count? Disappointment? And not even disappointment for you, but for myself. I wanted to scream at my own apathy. My own inability to trust to even the tiniest degree. It ruins even the slightest chances I have at some kind of fulfillment, physical, mental, whatever.
I’m a fucking monster and you should have known when you looked at me. And you kept looking. You stared into my eyes like you saw something there. It’s like you didn’t know it was just a trick of the light. Whatever flickers down there is not for you. You’re a little rabbit wandering down a hole, you don’t see it for its teeth and dripping saliva, you don’t realize you’re in the gaping maw of some hideous thing that is patiently waiting for you to walk all the way in, straight down its throat.
There was this moment where I thought you might say it. You were looking at me and I was under you, and I tensed because I was waiting, waiting for the awful words to come pouring out and to have to answer in some half-hearted way. I’m glad that your phone went off and you looked away. I don’t know what I would have said. Probably nothing. I feel like silence is almost worse, really. I must seem like such a bitch.
But I learned something. And I’ll take that. I can’t feel with any of you. I’m just too far fucking gone. I feel something physically, a little, enough to keep doing it, but no one’s getting in my head or heart or wherever. I bricked it all up and sealed it away. It’s too fucking late. And it doesn’t matter because you’re not meant for me anyway.
The worst part is, I don’t even care. I can stand forever by this fire. Out in the dark. Alone. Til death do us part.
As I am now, so you must be,
Prepare for death and follow me.
But you’ll never be like me. Maybe you should be grateful. Go back to you home, little rabbit. I’ll let you go this time, but only because you were sweet and didn’t mean any harm. You treated me like a person, not just a hole to fuck, and I respect that. Admire it, even.
You fucked me with love. I don’t even know how to feel about that.
Thanks, I think.

Fucking Guinevere

I feel like something wobbly and weak. Newly birthed. The world is so bright and glaring, bearing down on me with its oppressiveness until I close my eyes to find the dark again. It swallows me up in its great cloak, extending over even the braver parts that have never shied from the sun.

I can’t let go. Not of anything. I’m always going to be rolling the stone up the hill. Maybe I don’t want to give up, or maybe I want to remember why it is I’m having to roll it in the first place. I don’t even care if it’s hopeless. I will do whatever it takes to never forget, because sometimes, remembering is all you have to prevent the next oncoming disaster.

I wonder if you’re better now. I know you don’t wonder of me. I’m burned and deleted and gone, just like you have done with every last thing that made you uncomfortable. I’m the past, lumped in with all those other things you want to forget. And when you do remember, I can only imagine it is with humiliation. We were of the same build in that regard; always the masochists, always snatching onto those snippets of horror like a lifeline, using them like sharpened knives to cut ourselves apart. Maybe we just liked the fall, or maybe we knew with enough cutting, enough brutality, we could be coerced into changing, us, the weakened things that cower in the corners of existence, so ashamed of their faces that they shudder at the thought of coming out of the shadow.

I’m you. And somehow, that is scarier than anything else. I know now why you shied from my touch. It all makes a sick kind of sense, and I can only imagine how intense and insistent I was. I think of those moments and I have to swallow down my revulsion with myself. Was I ever wanted? That is the question I ask myself every time I think on you. Or was I just a moment of entertainment between the impending insanity that was slowly consuming every part of me? I was crazy. I should have gone to a hospital. But I didn’t. I thought dying was better, purer. And your coldness was like a pool of icy water, so fucking impenetrable and unconcerned. Liability. Was that all I was? I was the weaker one, I see that. I was at a disadvantage. And I took it, like your fucking little bitch. I guess it doesn’t matter now, at least not to anyone important. Just me.

I did it to myself. That’s what I get for caring. That’s what I get for believing in something like love. You can laugh, it’s okay. I know what it looks like. I know what I did. And yes, it was laughable. I never knew I could be so vulnerable and so helpless. And they warned me, didn’t they? Even you did. But I couldn’t give up, I just couldn’t. I would have died for one moment of perfect. I would have done anything. I loved you so. It was like the stupid movies, it was like all those ridiculous books I read. I felt like I couldn’t breathe without you. God, I hate myself so much. I should fucking die, I know. And I’m sorry for being alive, I truly am, because I betrayed myself more than I ever did you. I gave up everything for a dream. I surrendered, so simply, so easily. If you would have asked me to die, I’d have done it without question, just because all I ever wanted was to please you. Please you so I could please myself.

How could I be so blind? What happened to me? You made me nothing. I feel like something that’s not even human anymore. And I know that for part of it, I have you to thank. You, my creator, who so lifelessly shook until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Until I fell apart. Until I couldn’t find myself anymore. I died, like all those fuckers say. Everything was just gone.

I’ve never felt anyone’s pain, but I felt yours. Felt it like it was my own. Who knew in me was an empathetic creature? Who fucking knew?

And it’s alright, because I hate me more than I hate you. I won’t punish myself for what I did, not anymore. But I am sorry. I am sorry for tearing you down with my villainy and ruining that hero facade. I’m sorry for exposing you. But I knew the truth as you knew it. I just wanted something unattainable. And everybody knows the villain isn’t supposed to feel sorry for the hero. The villain isn’t supposed to become so obsessed with the hero that she can’t live anymore.

And I’m sorry for putting your through it. I fucked you because it was the only way you would touch me. I would have given anything for a simple caress of caring. Anything. Name it.

I can’t be Guinevere. You told me that. And I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry.

I’m never going to be her. And I should tear your throat out for saying it. Do you know how much I know it? Do you know?

Fuck you and your fucking unattainable bullshit. Because I know your secret. I know all of it. I fucking know.

You’ll never be that. Ever. You’re too weak, too needy. And you’re fucking Guinevere is never going to come.

Or maybe she has, Arthur. Or were you too stupid to notice the comparison? You’re precious Guinievere, who has a liking for someone else, and takes him to her bed. The irony! Maybe I should feel more sorry for you than I ever have.

In the end, it makes no difference. I wouldn’t take you back if you crawled. And I hope every single day of your life, you pay for leaving me so. Crocodile tears. That’s what you said of me. And I laugh now, because your shame, your supposed humility. Should I even believe? Should I?

I saw you. I saw you as no one else has. I want you to remember that, because I will carry it with me to my death.

Through time

I came across an old email today. It’s strange to look back at who I was then and who I am now. I have to ask myself if we really are so different as I pretend. We were the same once, weren’t we? The direction my life took does not pain me, however the way I dealt with it does. It disgusts me to think what a desperate, lost soul I can be, clawing to the one thing I believe made a difference.

How could you not see it what what was drowning you, I wonder?

I can only hope I have become vacant enough to handle such an encounter again. I lost myself, I lost what I wanted to be, and thought that someone else could live it for me. But the truth is, we are all alone, no matter what they might say. I am the only one who will shoulder the weight of my own burdens, and when I stumble and fall, there will only ever be my own willpower to get me to rise again. I expect you to spit in my face and laugh, or run away scared; I’ve see it all, sweetheart.

I’m smiling now. In the end, is that so truly terrible to be abandoned? What should a monster really expect?

If I saw you again, I think I might discover that I still love you. But that love, ah, what a thing it is now. Is love what makes me want to rip out your heart through your chest and eat it? Oh god, and I would.

I’d love to hear you scream. You think me sick now, I wonder? But I think you already did. So I thank you, I thank you for taking the worst part of me and making it so obvious, because without you, I’d have never been able to get to it. I’ve cut it out, you know, burned at it, ripped at it with my fingernails. I’ve drank it away, I’ve starved it away, and now it’s this shriveled vile thing, so perfect for the rest of me. I was never good enough, and now it’s all not good enough. And you know what? That’s just how I like it.

I will never be good. I’ll always be the child to you, the one you found so petty. But I see now what I could not see then. With all your so-called righteousness, I never thought to look deep, but I see now what you didn’t want me to see. And god, aren’t we so ugly on the inside?

And now I’m laughing. So goodbye my sweet friend. I’ve decided I am through with you, for good. You were my hardest lesson, and I am sorry to disappoint, but I am still here.

Oh, and motherfucker? I’m not leaving until I’m done.

Numb

I tried to explain to him yesterday. I knew that words would not suffice, not nearly, but some hopeless part of me deemed it one of the few opportune moments to try. How can I explain this without casting everything I’ve ever done or said in tainted shadow? It changed those memories, I know it did. 

I cried for the first time in so long, but it was not sorrow or pain, but a diluted frustration, something so vague even I can scarcely read it as whatever emotion it was originally intended to be. By the time it filters passed my brain and into my body, it’s lost its meaning. It’s a fog of uncertainty, a clenching in my chest, or something so slight that I can’t school my expression into anything other than blankness because I already lost sight of what that feeling was supposed to be. My heavy filter. An endless burden. A weighty cross.

I can’t convey it properly. I tried, but I know that he cannot feel it, only guess at it. I told him so, and that realization, that saying it out loud, made it truly sink into my consciousness.

He doesn’t know. They don’t know. They can’t know.

Should I be glad for your damnation? Is it disgusting that there is a sense of relief when I think to myself that I am not the only one? The smiles, the opinions, the gestures… You know what I mean. Puppet on a string, with no emotion attached. Just a blank countenance with twitching, awkward gestures to satiate humanity. But they don’t see it that way, do they? The disgrace of it, the bitterness in the eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible downturn of the mouth. The hate that burns somewhere dark and buried, but never forgotten, an abominable child that nurses on the sins of the monsters, growing and growing, gorging until the black becomes more than shadow; it’s void, so deep and desolate that there is no escape to be had. It swallows you up, swallows you whole, and you forget where the mask and where your ‘insanity’ begin.

I made a mistake, I think. It’s fractured too much now, and even my most controlled of strokes will not repair. The world I made to keep them away is shaking with doubt, crumbling at the foundations.

There are somedays that I don’t want the walls. I want it to come down, down, down. I want this house of lies to be nothing more than dust and rubble at my feet, so I might start again without this heavy burden, without concern for discovery on my mind. 

I free the beast more and more. He grows so tired of his chains. I wonder what they would all say if I just…let him out? 

Departure Plan

Everything is so strange right now. I’ve been trying to make sense of it, but for fear of returning to my old ways, I feel as though the best course of action is to carry on, and try not to stop and remember that there isn’t a reason why. I could say I’m not depressed, but it wouldn’t be true; I’m simply in a different state of mind. There’s this odd indifference that seems to be worsening. I have no real concerns for anything—I’m just moving along because I know if I stop and look back, there will be nothing there that I see as worthwhile.

I’ve wasted a lot of time, but I can tolerate things now better than I could previously. That’s a start, I guess. I’m doing things I never thought I’d try, and even though the voice inside tells me it’s not going to last, I’m not going to back away. I’ve been spending a lot of money, and I strangely don’t care. There are things I want, things to make me more comfortable, and I realize now that those comforts are all I have. There’s companionship and all of that, but it makes no impact on that void that has always been.

There’s something hollow and cut-off inside of me. It makes me so cold sometimes, so cold that I can’t cry, that I can’ feel anything at all. It’s a bliss compared to that old pain, but people don’t understand it. They can’t understand the way I can block off things, or the way that crashing waves can just slide on passed me without even getting my clothes wet. They don’t know what it is to be a person who doesn’t understand some of the basic emotions.

It’s so bad now that I almost can’t write. My characters come out cold and cruel because I can’t remember what they are supposed to feel or think, I just know the beautiful grey nothingness, and what it means to be this inhuman, monstrous thing. But god, what it is to live in a world with no emotional pain. It takes a smashing blow to even begin to crack the veneer. And even then, there’s this sick satisfaction because I know it won’t last long. My emotions—the few that there are—are so fleeting that they are nothing more than blinks in my existence. 

I’ve been trying to fake it, to seem normal, but the concern over people ‘discovering’ me is waning. I make flat, half-hearted attempts, because in my core I don’t care. Let them hate, let them think I’m some kind of freak. Haven’t they always anyway? 

I’m nearly 23, and I realize now that I don’t care where life takes me. I don’t want to go to college, I have no interest in having a particular vocation. All I know is that regardless of my situation I plan to take and get what I want. There is nothing in my way but people, people who will fold at your slightest insistence, and I’m seeing that now. I’m seeing the power I have always had but been too withdrawn and shy to use.

You have to be forceful, and you have to learn to not care, and I am learning. I’m putting myself out there. I’ve been letting people have a go at me, letting them laugh, letting them criticize, and the more I do, the less and less their words seem to matter. I want what I want, and their desires don’t make a shit bit of fucking difference. They can tear down my art, or the things I write. Let them. It hasn’t been stopping me, not like it used to. The smallest criticism and I would tear up a drawing, or not finish a story. I was doing things for them, and now I want to do things for me. I want to make what I like, write about what interests me, not what’s going to win the popularity contest.

I’ve been saying this for so long, but now it’s truly sinking in. I am actually getting it. I am believing it, and it’s changing me. I never thought I’d develop a thicker skin, but here it is, and I know that not long from now it will be impenetrable. There’s nothing wrong with fading into selfishness. What is it they say? You have to love and take care of yourself, put your needs first, before you can take care of others? Well, I am starting to believe it.

I’ve made so many stupid choices, but I can see now. I’m going to go where I want to go, and I’m not going to be held back anymore. And let them scoff. No one has to like me. Even the nastiest people can get what they want, so long as they are willing to fight for it.