The Religious & The Damaged

38

Joseph

  I stumble into the bathroom, tears running down my cheeks as I extend my shaky hands behind my neck to remove my shirt, and I feel as it tears from my wounded back.

  Shaky breaths slip from my nose into sort of cries slipping from my lips, and my heart aches greatly.

  My whole body aches.

  It's like I can feel every single bruise and where they're at—it burns, it aches.

  My father's beatings have gotten worse.

  My flashbacks have become more frequent, and not only have I endured worse beatings from my father, I've been hurting myself more and more.

  I've become reliant on it to feel in control because not eating hasn't been enough.

  I don't want to live anymore.

~•~

  I step out of the shower—the towel around my waist as I step in front of the foggy mirror.

  I swipe my hand over the mirror. I take a step back as I finally see the state I'm in.

  I have a black eye, and my cheekbone on the opposite side is swollen, and I look like I haven't slept in years—but it's only been a day.

  How is it that it's only been a day and I look and feel as I do?

  I turn away, and I let out a shaky breath.

  I get dressed as quickly as possible, then I leave to my room. I sit at my desk and open the notebook that sits on it.

  I pick up the pencil and begin writing:

  I miss him.

  I miss how life was before this burden weighed me down, it's stuck with me and I lost him.. and in some sense, I lost myself too.

  It hurts remembering just how life has changed.

  Life wasn't good before but it was better than life now. I want that back.

  I want him back.

  I make myself sick and I cut just to feel control because I've lost all control.

  My father and the memories of what happened has full control now.

  And when I purge and cut, it feels like I have some of that control again.

  Starving isn't enough anymore.

  Elias stopped trying to talk to me and I know I told him to, but I really wanted him to keep trying.

  I wanted that reminder that he still cared.

  And maybe he still does.

  I don't know.

  I'm not worth caring about, maybe he's realized that.

  I lean back in my seat and exhale shakily.

  I never deserved him.

  I stand and move to sit on my bed—my back against the wall, and I take out my phone.

  I look through pictures of Elias and I.

  There's not many of them, just three, but I still hope that it'll make me feel better, but it just makes me feel worse—seeing pictures of us together and happy makes me feel sad because we're simply not anymore.

  I huff and toss my phone next to me.

  I stare in front of me as I bring my knees to my chest—emptiness settles in; loneliness.

  I look to the side as I reach for the pair of shears under my pillow.

  I lift my sleeve to reveal the countless cuts that are there now, and I make more.

  I don't realize I'm crying until tears fall against my hand, but I don't stop.

  I keep going and going.

  More and more tears fall, and I start to sob.

  And by the time I stop, my arm is practically covered in blood. I take in a deep, shaky breath and I choke out another sob.

  I hold the bottom of my shirt against my arm as I cry more—my head falls, then lifts as I stare helplessly at the ceiling.

  The desire to drag the metal across my wrists until I bleed out is strong.

  I want to die.

  I don't want to feel this way forever.

  And I'm not sure why I don't just do it.

  Maybe, I'm afraid of death; the eternal emptiness. I'm not sure.

  The weekend passes by.

  I rarely leave my room during it, but I have no choice but to today because it's Sunday.

  And at the service, I can't help but realize that Kelsey isn't here.

  I stand from my seat once the service is over and I walk into the hall next to me.

  I take out my phone and call Kelsey, but she doesn't answer.

  I feel a rush of worry run through me, and it's the first time I've really felt anything since what happened.

  I text her.

  Are you okay? 11:45am.

  I stare at my phone for a moment in hope that she'll respond, but she doesn't, so I shove my phone back in my pocket.

  All I can think is; I hope she's okay.

  I step out from the hall, and my attention shifts over to my father as he has a conversation with an older woman.

  Panic settles in when her gaze meets mine, and she says, "Your boy is so bruised up, what are those kids doing to him?"

  I gulp hard as my gaze leaves hers.

  "Yes, I know. The school is handling it. Only God can help him now."

  Another woman joins in. "I heard my two boys say that they haven't seen him get into a fight for about a month. His bruises look new."

  "Yes, unfortunately some kids beat him up on his way home from school Friday." My father says.

  "That poor boy."

  I look up, and my father looks back at me as the two women continue.