Dance Of A Parasite

1

Thursday

Just as any other day, the soulless organism treading past is ignored. If only they would ignore me for a few minutes more, to where I can prepare myself for the upcoming bruises I struggle to cover up. Not that I need to. The sight of purple and yellow more visible than my own skin makes me wish that they would beat me more so people would think I usually looked multicoloured.

It was a struggle to get myself off the floor of the restroom, hoping someone wouldn't come in and start laughing at the weak squirrel. My knees feel weak but I wouldn't collapse in a place where anyone could see me.

The hallways are cluttered with huddles of monsters roaming around, a devious smile plastered on their faces to mask the black ivy oozing from their soul. No eye bothers to glance at me. At this point, they grew accustomed to me dragging myself past.

Just one more day, I think to myself.

They seldom trouble me on the weekends. I am sure they have other things to do, which is nothing but a relief for me. A temporary weight thrown off my shoulders. If only it were the weekend forever--I could close my eyes, knowing I wouldn't wake up with blood colonizing my body again.

With one more luring fantasy, I think I might go crazy.

Outside, the earth is filled with deafening silence eating us alive. It is the tranquil sensation of the cool, hush of the meaningless void being why I am not six feet under. In this world of twisted, crude tragedy, it is no wonder why the most worthwhile thing in life is to admire nature. After all, they didn't threaten to throw you off a roof.

Where there was a bird, where were the people?

Behind me, there is the slamming of a body against brick. One too many times I heard that sound, where, many times, I was the reason for it. Each time it wasn't me, I couldn't be bothered to glance. For if I did, I would be standing side by side with a victim, becoming a punching bag for a group of freaks.

"Good morning, princess," a familiar deep voice whispers in my ear. He spoke to me just an hour ago--I suppose sometimes bastards could be clingy. I turn toward the speaker, not surprised at the face who was the reason for the scars beneath my skin standing before me. I am almost ready for another blow in the face, this time hoping he is in a good mood. "No good morning back? How rude. I really was going to be nice to you, you know."

Each day, the same words. 'I was going to go easy on you', 'If you said hi to me, your pretty face wouldn't be all messed up.' Whether it was worth saying good morning was not to dwell on. No matter what I do, it was always the same routine.

Another voice calls out his name. He swear under his breath, looking me up and down for just a moment. "Don't think you got lucky," he muttesr before running off.

Normally, I would be glad about it. But, in the back of my mind, I am wordlessly hoping he would do it. Perhaps going to the hospital one more time would let them off me. The feeling of their hands make me feel like I am going to infect them, but it seems they care more about beating the parasite out of me. If it worked that way, I would've had it out of me long ago.

As he walks away, I stand and watch. Watching his back retreat away from me leisurely put my tense body at ease, as I let my guard down for a minute or two. Probably stupid of me to do so, but I really didn't care anymore. If someone decides to throw me on the ground from behind, I'd simply be grateful I didn't break my teeth for everyone to see.

The longer the humiliation dwells onwards, the less I care. However, there is that lingering sense of indignity in me to where I wish I could melt away. I'd rather have people step on me as a puddle than be beaten ferociously.