Torn Souls

12. I'm stuck inside this body. I wish it wasn't my own.

Tw/Cw: self harm, heavy topics- please do not read if you get triggered by such topics.

The day had been tiring. He dropped everything and immediately headed for the bathroom. He didn't care how much work he had. George was too tired. He couldn't find a single ounce of will power in him. Even as he headed to the bathroom, even as he willed himself to go straight for the shower handle, even as he willed himself to not look, he did.

Maybe if I didn't see myself in the mirror I wouldn't hate me as much. It was terribly sad that he looked more dead than an actual ghost. He hated himself with everything in him. He would never stop picking out his flaws. He would never stop finding new ones.

He wished he had more weight to him. More mass and muscle. He was tired of looking so thin. They called him a twig, a toothpick. They told him they could easily snap them in half. Yet he felt so heavy all the time. Like his eyes, he wished his eyes had more color. He wished they were fascinating and colorful. He wished they would glow in the sun. He wished they were interesting to look at. Instead he saw them as simply two dots of darkness placed in the middle of the whites of his eyes. His cheekbones stuck out but not in the way he wished.

The scars that lay all over his body looked like he had gotten into a fight with a wild animal. A wild animal he was too weak to fight. A wild animal that ran on a rampage but never slowed itself down. The wild animals were his hands. His hands were the ones that dug the razor, the blade, anything sharp enough to cut into his skin.

George was tired of being lonley. He wanted to love someone, he wanted to care for someone. George wondered if half of his sorrow was caused by his heart, if his heart was the one controlling him. It would explain the desire to please everyone, to love everyone so they would love him. But they didn't. They just took advantage of him. Or was it his brain that constantly tipped the edge of the boat, threatening to throw him into the ice water below. He was always left holding on for his life.

You could take his lungs, his tongue. He didn't need to speak, he didn't want to keep breathing. If you took his abilities to speak, he wouldn't have to burden anyone with his own sadness. If you took his abilities to speak, he could no longer complain or bicker. He could no longer sing the sad words of his mental state.

No, it was his brain that caused such hatred towards himself. Take it first. Take the memories daunting him daily. He remembered classmates telling him he should eat more. He remembered classmates telling him that he would be blown away if the wind picked up too much. And he specifically remembered how they could shove him to the ground as they claimed "just because it was easy" as if they had nothing better to do in their free time. He remembered how the teachers would stand and stare. They wouldn't even flinch. Some would turn their heads to hide the smile that grew on their lips to stop their laughter. Others would shake their heads and walk away.

This lasted until he was ten. George met this boy with brown wavy hair, who always wore a beanie. He was like a brother. He taught George how to fight back. And when he couldn't, the boy towered over the kid until they turned and cowared away in fear. From then on, they spent every moment they could with eachother.

George thought they would be friends until the day they died. Well, in a way he was right. The boy with the beanies didn't quite make it through school. This was when he was seventeen. He didn't love himself enough, the people were too mean. But now he's gone.

George missed him. He wondered where he went wrong, what hadn't he done enough of. Seven years of guilt still sat on his shoulders. He should just get over it. It was so long ago, there's nothing he could do now. But he constantly told himself there was something he could've done then. He constantly hated himself for not trying harder. His own mother told him he could do better. She told him there were no reasonings, that he was a sorry excuse for a son. He tried so hard, he just didn't know how. So he learned to mask it. George only allowed himself to break down in the own privacy of his own space.

He would wear the mask until it chipped and broke, until there was nothing left. As he stood in the bathroom in front of the sink, looking in the mirror at the broken boy who stared back at him, he swore he felt another peice break away. His motions seemed robotic. He'd done it more than a few times before. His hand traced down to the bathroom drawer, pulling the nob until it opened. The handle was cold, the blade colder as it sliced into his right wrist. His hands shook, an explosion of sobs and tears came all at once. He dug the blade into his skin, watching as blood gushed out, spilling out onto the cheep linoleum tile.

His face became red and splotchy. His nose began to run, he wiped it on his shirt sleeve. He couldn't see clear, the salty ocean of tears clouded his vision too much. George hoped that the internal pain would stop just for a moment. That his body would focus just on the external pain. That his body would focus on the sharp sting of the blade driving into his arm over and over again.

The pain never left, it only became worse. He threw the bloody blade into the sink in anger. His hands reached into his hair pulling it harshly as he slid to the ground. The sobs wrecked through George's body. He cried until his throat hurt and his eyes ran dry. He cried until the blood ran still, drying into a flakey red mess on his skin and icky deep brown spots on his clothes. He was sure it'd been an hour. He was now numb. He could only move his limbs, he could not feel his emotions. Maybe it was for the better. He used the counter to pull himself up and god did he look terrible. His whole face was red and splotched, his eyes were puffy and squinted, the tip of his nose red from the rough of his shirt sleeve wiping the snot that ran from his nose. His hair stuck up in every direction possible. But his eyes were glued on his arms, his shirt that covered his torso. He looked like he had murdered someone. He wished that someone was himself. It would've been better off that way. The reflection was ugly, so instead of standing and staring, he turned on the shower and got in. No will came to unclothe himself. Not a care came as the ice water hit his head and cascaded over his shoulders. Not a care came to the burning sensation when the water meet the cuts that would be scars later.

Even though he fully knew it was his fault, even though he fully knew he was his responsibility and his alone he couldn't help but feel bitterness towards the only person left. The only person who had even remotely cared. He still, felt no guilt.

Maybe if you were here, maybe if I wasn't alone this wouldn't of happened.