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
No comments:
Post a Comment