The Religious & The Damaged

36

Joseph

  I walk into my bedroom and drop my bag carelessly on the floor. I close the door and walk over to my bed and lay down—my knees curl up into my chest, and I'm immediately aware of the silent tears that fall down the side of my face.

  I'm so overwhelmed and empty at the same time, it doesn't make sense.

  I can't stop thinking about the look on Elias' face each time I made him feel horrible, it hurts knowing I made him feel that way.

  I can't stop thinking about yesterday and what happened—it keeps playing back in my head, and it has been all day.

  It's like it's incapable of stopping, and I can't help but wish Elias was here, holding me.

  I'd feel so much better.

  I wrap my arms around myself and shut my eyes, and my brows tremble as shaky, fast breaths slip from my nose.

  I hold myself; I try to imagine it's Elias, but the hold is cold and full of sorrow, and it only makes me aware that it's not him and it can never be him again.

  And it feels like I'm dying.

  But I'm waking up because the morning sun is in my eyes, and I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, but it still feels like I'm not here; like I don't exist—life isn't real.

  I don't want to be here anymore, anyway.

  I thought life was bad before, but this is just flat out miserable—but I'm empty, and everything I fought so hard against doesn't matter anymore; I don't want to fight anymore.

  I don't want to live my life with the constant reminder of what happened to me and of what my father did to my mom, and with the constant fear that he'll hurt Elias too.

  It's my fault for thinking I could live a normal life, and now I've put him in danger—that guilt is with me all the time.

  My head tilts back at the alarm clock, and it reads: 7:15am.

  I've been sitting here for an hour, and yet I don't want to get up.

  I don't have the energy to get out of bed.

  I don't want to be mean to Elias.

  I don't want to see my father.

  I don't want to live.

  But I'll just be dragged out of bed and punished, so I force myself to my feet and carelessly throw on a sweater from my closet and a pair of jeans, then I brush my teeth in the bathroom.

  I toss my toothbrush in the cup on the sink, and my gaze drops to the pair of shears on the counter.

  I find myself hungry for the reassurance that I am still alive, and for control because I feel like my body's not my own anymore—I want to feel control over my own body.

  I pick up the shears and push up the sleeve of my sweater, and without an ounce of hesitation or thought, I drag the metal across my wrist.

  A shaky breath of relief slips from my lips as that hunger is fulfilled.

  I can't help but make another, then I tug down my sleeve and return to my room, where I pick up my backpack and drop the shears on my desk.

  I walk downstairs and past my father in the kitchen, who surprisingly doesn't say anything to me, but I'm not complaining.

  I slip on my shoes at the front door, then I leave.

  I can't help but hope that Elias believed my act yesterday, and he won't talk to me anymore—but I think I know him better than that.