The Difference Between Fear and Terror

Untitled Part 33

Luke's POV

I don't dare to move. I don't dare to talk. I don't dare get out of bed. Whatever I do is a disaster.

I'm just screwed up. I stare down at my thigh. It itches, begging me to cut. But that would require getting up. I don't have the mental capacity to get up.

I know something is wrong with me. I should get help, but slicing my own skin is more comforting than counselling could ever be.

I might look happy, but deep down I'm actually really sad. It isn't very deep down at all in reality, it is just under a layer of clothing.

I'm tire. I'm tired of being fucked up. I'm tired of slicing my own skin. I'm tired of being expected to be my happy perky self. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of sleepless nights. I'm tired of the hopelessness that keeps me awake at all hours.

My thoughts are always worse at night. They gnaw at the inside of my skull, eating me alive. The more I think, the more I feel like crying. Then i realize I can't cry.

Something is wrong with me. I am too empty, to numb, to cry.

I bang my head against the wall, just waiting to be yelled at. How nobody notices, I don't know. I sure as hell notice all of their problems. I must not be worth the trouble of being cared about.

Would anybody even miss me if I died?

Not my skills, but me, as a person?

Because honestly, I don't think anyone would notice.