Scream your throat raw and cry your eyes dry.
Pain is persistent, the antidote is time.
Everyone has a story that will break your heart.
Listen to their tales before you depart:
“But I love you.” I whisper through a steady waterfall of tears. She just shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” She stares down at the sidewalk, refusing to look me in the eye or glance at the single red carnation I hold out to her. At this very moment I, a sorry young boy with an innocent love and a flower, know no worse pain than a broken heart.
“Please help me” The message reads. “Talk to me” I reply. Her life story riddled with pain and heartache scrolls across my computer screen and somewhere in the world she watches as my urgently typed reasons to not pull the trigger appear on her monitor. Our conversation ends when she sends me her last message: “Don’t blame yourself.” But I do. And now it’s one a.m. and I’m crying my eyes out on the floor, my heart stinging with remorse, grieving for this internet stranger whom I failed to save.
Today, I’m lying in a hospital bed with my mom beside me. All I can remember is the sensation of drowning and not being able to move my body. The funny thing is I don’t know what hurts worse: whether it’s the constant twinge of pain up and down my spine or the fact that I’ll never fulfill my dream of dancing on Broadway.
“Yeah, everything’s fine” I affirm as I make eye contact with my mother. All I do is hope that she can’t see through my eyes and into my memory, haunted with pictures of my dad holding hands and laughing with some blonde Barbie that could be my older sister. Guilt surges through my 13 year old body and feels like a razor slicing through my not-so-innocent heart. I turn away so she cannot see the look on my face.
I almost feel a little guilty, handing over my bills, remembering that my five-year-old twins haven’t eaten in almost three days. But then I remind myself that I haven’t gotten high in four days. And soon it’s going to be too late to care anyway.
“No” I scream “Stop . . . I don’t want to” My pleas seem to have no effect on my attacker but that doesn’t stop me from kicking him. The calloused hands grip me tighter and don’t refuse to allow anymore squirms. A wave of hot breath washes over me and I scream in anguish, but my silent apartment offers up no help. Terror takes hold of my mind. Even death sounds better than this. The black dots begin seep into my eyes. The last thing I remember before my vision disappeared entirely is his smoldering brown eyes: the eyes of my father.
I slide the razor tantalizingly over my left wrist wondering if what they say is true: that physical pain helps subside the emotional hurt. I find out a second later when blood bubbles up from a fresh cut; Its true.
I inhale sharply. My eyes widen and look about wildly for someone to save me froom the inevitable. The walls seem to press in from all sides and my heartbeat must be flying off the charts. My head begins to spin as my body shakes in terror. I desperately wish to be anywhere but here. The mask hiding my fearful face slips for an instant before I can recover it. I suddenly remember where I am pull myself together. Everything is okay, I tell myself. And that’s also what I tell my teammates. Because, what girl is going to look up to a captain with panic attacks?
Everyone has pain; everyone cries.
Everyone has demons hiding in their eyes.
What’s your story? What’s your view?
‘Cause the good news is
I’ll endure it with you