Thank You

Thoughtless

It would be a complete and utter lie if I said life automatically got better after that talk with my mother. But to be fair, it didn't exactly get much worse either. For three weeks now, my life has been a blur. If I had a hard time silencing my thoughts before, now my mind just seems to be deprived of them.

I did get back into the world with surprisingly little help needed from my mom. Truth is, my body and my mind had become detached, and if my physical form was able to move, to act and pretend to live normally, my brain was as good as dead. Still is, really. I wake up every morning, walk out the door half a minute after getting dressed and flee the house for the day. I might not be able to create a particular thought, there's a feeling leading me away from my room, from the house itself. From my mom.

We have not talked about the things I yelled at her that night. I doubt the fact that she just decided to forget about it and let it slide. I think she wants to know ; she wants an explanation - once more – and probably an apology. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel the tiniest bit guilty about the words that came out of my mouth in that argument, but it also wouldn't be right to say I didn't mean at least some of them. I do realize how hurtful what she heard must have been - I know how much words can burn ; she did burn me too – but anything said in anger comes from something bottled up for too long. It might be amplified by the rise of heat in the moment, but it comes from something truthful, something you think and mean for real. And as much as I wish to apologize, I just cannot bring myself to do it. It may have to be because I try to avoid the house as much. Or is it the reason why I stay out so much ?

I took up every opportunity to stay longer at school. I do not like it – hate it, really – but if this is what can give me extra hours away from the suffocating place I am supposed to call home, I surely will take it. I did make up some of my excuses for not coming back earlier, and my mother most probably saw right through them, but if she's now stopping me from going out by night, she can't keep me locked inside by day. And so, every day, I sit by the half-demolished wall of an old grocery store behind my high school and chain-smoke until it's time to take the last school bus.

my fingers. Her stubbing it out meant a greater deal than words and begs, and I thought for that reason I would never smoke again. But with Cate gone – crossed out from my life – there was no reason for me to truly stop. The smoke makes me feel less uneasy. I don't feel good, but I feel better when my head is filled with fumes. It makes the world even more blurry ; just enough to be bearable again.

Of course, I would have wanted to run back to Cate's house instead of smoking desperately on a broken wall, but after that night, it felt out of reach. I had had to stop myself from going there one day instead of school. But the truth is I knew – and know – that bringing myself close to her and to Andrew is just a danger. A danger to me – which does not matter very much – but also a danger to her. The fury in his eyes before he hit me. His muscles flexing when he tried to compose himself in vain. His knuckles cracking as his fists rolled up. That look on his face that only showed he craved breaking something. And I know all too well that the one thing he likes to break in this kind of situation is Cate. And I cannot let that happen. Not now. Not ever. Not ever again.

I know. I just know he didn't look at the window to watch me run away from him. I know he merely walked upstairs to meet a frightened Cate trying to hide pain and fear from him. I know he got to break something. He got what he wanted. Not again. Not ever. He hit her again, and it was my fault. Yes, it was a short relief to see her face through the window, but hadn't I come, she maybe would have been safe that night. It wasn't worth it. I was stupid and foolish. Selfish. How could I ever be of any help ? I didn't go there to save her. I went to see her and fulfil some kind of sick and egoistic desire. All I did is bring her more harm. Not. Again.

It might not have been true : I can think. It comes in weird, quick flashes, but it happens. Otherwise, how could have I processed these events and situations ? However, it is still true to say most of the time my body acts by itself, like a puppet or a machine. Life is so bleak and uneventful that nobody had noticed really. With no one to talk to at school, a mother I keep on avoiding and a lover I have to erase from my memories, nobody can break my mechanical routine. Or so I thought.

I inhale the smoke once more, filling my lungs as much as I can, consuming the cigarettes at an alarming rate. Killing yourself doesn't always have to be plainly obvious. My head is empty, and I don't know how many fags are gone. This is all a robotic act, really, and I don't have to think to smoke. I exhale the fumes slowly, gaze wandering around aimlessly.

"This is gonna kill you, you know."

I don't move. I know whoever is standing beside me is talking to me – I am the only person here at any time of the day – but this body is just a shell, and my brain isn't quite ready to react.

"I guess you know. Gotta have a big reason to fuck yourself up like that."

They walk into frame. A skinny kid. Platinum hair, hooded eyes with heavy eyeliner painted over them, at least a dozen piercings and a style that people around here look at weirdly. The making of a freak. Just like me.

"If you're gonna kill yourself, can I bum one ?"

Icy blue eyes are piercing right through me. They have the same eyes. The same as hers.

"Alright, then."

They sit next to me and lit the fag they stole from my hand. Just like she did.

"Who broke your heart ?"

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who decided life had to be that hard lol