“Why do you do this to yourself?”
You’re cowering in the closet again. Eyes tightly shut, face pressed as close to the wall as you can get it. There’s a crash, the sound of broken cookery and smashed items from beyond the door. Before, before you would have gone to see, to check and make sure. Now you just bury your nose deeper into the corner.
Outside the screaming continues, inaudible yet you know its vicious and hateful. You don’t need to hear the words to know the tone. It’s the same song and dance day after day.
Feelings are hurts, words are used as if they are just sharpened knives, and gapping wounds are made.
On and on it goes. Endless it seems until it’s not. Silence reigns and continues to grow. Cautiously you pull away from your corner. Ear pressed to the door you listen, silence.
You go into the kitchen. It’s vacant. Strewn around are the remnants of a once immaculate table. With an air of long practice and light feet you begin to pick up the pieces of your life.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen”, you count quietly under your breath nails digging into your thighs. Four bloody trails roll down the slope of you body, pooling in the crease of your groin.
“Twenty.” Slowly your fingers relax their grip.
You stare at you bloody nails frowning. Meticulously you begin the clean up. Using your thumb to clean the moist blood and flesh from under your nails. One hand at a time wiping every so often at a near by tissue. Four tissues later you fingers are as immaculate at they will be. You should get a manicure soon; you frown down at your ragged cuticles.
Peroxide next, you don’t want the cuts to get infected, infections lead to sickness and sickness leads to questions. And you have too many scars and not enough good answers.
You bite your lip at the burn of it but not bloody, not anymore you’re an old hat at this now.
The you that stares back in the mirror doesn’t look like what you think you look like. This person has to be you though. This weak, sad, pathetic creature is you. This pale, shallow skinned, limp haired, sad sack of flesh is all you’ve got.
You purse your lips and try to image what it’d be like to be attractive. You can’t. You try to smile bright and huge like you’ve seen others do, you grimace. Your teeth are crooked and stained yellow, your lips too thin on the top and too puffy on the bottom. You look like a crazed person, the kind people move across the street to avoid. No, smiling won’t make you more attractive.
You away from the mirror and flop backwards, just short of missing your bed. Your ceiling is far more attractive than you are.
Suddenly there’s the sound of a door slamming into a wall, the bonce back and it slamming shut. You freeze, deer in headlight stupid and in the way. Maybe if you don’t breath no one will know you’re here.
You breathe again. No you think you need to be braver first.
“This is so I never forget”
. . . Terminate Simulation 26 . . .