MY SILENT KILLER

CHAPTER 2: DESPAIR

My typical Friday night. I sit alone on the couch in front of the plasma screen TV, geared with popcorn and the remote ready to start my movie marathon. Everything is how it should be until I look to the empty seat beside me; Mackenzie is not here. In fact we have barely spoken this entire week. Not at all actually until this morning.

I was crouching down, removing the unnecessary books from by bag ready to store in my locker.

“Hey Val, I haven’t seen you in ages”

“Oh, hey”, I greeted back unenthusiastically.

“What’s wrong? I haven’t seen you this entire week, are you alright?”

“Well that’s pretty strange, ‘cause I’ve seen you everyday”

“Yes, well I’ve been a little busy this week, I’m sure you understand.”

“Understand?” my voice cracking due to the anger. “You’ve spent the entire week with Maya! Maya! And here you are now trying to gloss over it as if nothing happened! Not a call or text or anything!”

“We were busy. I don’t understand why you’re so angry; she’s pretty decent if you get to know her!”

 “Oh busy huh? And no thanks! I have better things to waste my time on! And clearly you do too!”

I slammed the door, quickly picked up my bag lying on the floor and stormed off in the other direction.

Now that I think about it I may have over-reacted. But then again how do you forget about someone you’ve known for 12 years? Maybe I was becoming invisible.

I flick the remote and instantly the room fills with bright light. Tonight it’s all the classics; Titanic, Pearl Harbour and Schindler’s List. That should keep me up till the best part of the night.

I suddenly hear the doorcreak open; my parents are home. Every Friday night they attend some NASA committee meeting, it’s nothing the average human being would ever take interest in, but my parents are far from average.

“Hey Val, how was your day?” my father asks tiredly

“Oh you know, same old same old”, I reply monotonously

“Where’s Macks? She’s usually here by this time”, my mother asks curiously.

“Uh...She couldn’t come...uh...They’re going away for the weekend”, I stutter less than convincingly

“Oh how lovely”, my mother adds

They head off to their bedroom while I attack the pepperoni pizza they got for my supper. I hurriedly wish them “goodnight” before sinking my teeth into the melted cheese and spicy sausage. I slowly walk to the fridge and open its metallic door, before pulling out some orange juice.

As I walk back to the lounge with a half slice of pizza and juice, I hear a click and the whole house is blanketed in darkness.

“Great”, I mutter under my breathe

I head off to my room after leaving the food in the spotless kitchen and head into the passage with my phone which I received as a birthday gift a few months ago. I walk into my bedroom and gently shut the door, careful not to wake my parents in the room next door. I get under the covers and open the Google Homepage.

I started researching a few days ago. It was after my mother claimed that I was a terrible person to live with.

“You know Val; I’ve never met such a stubborn person in my entire life” she said using a tone usually meant for patients.

Admittedly I was pretty startled. “Why do you say so?” I inquired.

“Well for starters you lock yourself in that hell hole of a bedroom. You don’t talk to anyone and ask about how their day has been. You just sit there doing God knows what and wait for us to tell you everything. You know none of my friends’ children are like this? Whenever I go around they’re always there, ready to socialise.”

“Well sorry to disappoint,” but I’m not going to change just because Emily’s kids are vying for socialites of the year in Wingdon, I have better things to do.” I was beginning to lose my temper. My voice had cracked and she’d noticed.

“Valeria! I refused to be spoken to in that manner!” She seemed quite deranged.

“I’ve noticed you never win in this house, no matter how hard you try.”

That argument ended with me storming out of the kitchen and slamming my bedroom door which became my sanctuary for the evening.

In fact, I’d always wondered why people cut. I thought it to be something stupid which weak people did just to gain attention. I realise now that is not the reason. I realise that these people are just dying, for a lot. They want to be loved; they want to be cared for, they want their lives to matter. I thought I was loved, I thought I was being cared for, I thought my life mattered.

There is no need to kid myself; I have absolutely nothing figured out. The worst part? There is absolutely no one to help me figure it out. I have been rejected by every university my parents wanted me to attend. I have no career plan anymore because according to my parents my first choice is not feasible. I have no best friend; in fact I have no true friends who would actually help me figure something out, and mother thinks I’m the most horrible person to live with.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t cut. Yet. There is something hugely appealing. It seems as if all the pain and anger you’ve been holding in your blood will leave if you just have enough nerve to break open your skin.  

I suddenly begin to feel great respect for those who have taken their lives. It seems completely bazaar, but it must take courage to consciously end your life. Even though you could stop and stitch up the wound, you continue to go on until the only thing left is your lifeless body.  

 Maybe it was cowardice to run from your problems. They say that there is someone out there who is dying to live a life like yours. I don’t know of any sane, humane person right now who would want to do that. I have no meaningful future and no support system whatsoever. Why would anyone in their right mind want to trade places with me?

I pull the warm blankets off me and head into my bathroom. I open the azure cabinet hung directly above the sink and find a razor. I close the door and look into the mirror. Tears form in the corners of my eyes as I pull up the left sleeve of my black T-shirt. I look at the pale skin, in desperate need of a tan, and carefully slice my forearm.

At first there is a small stinging sensation, followed by blissfulness as the dark red blood oozes out slowly. I do it again. And again. I stand there for half an hour, slowly watching my arm become a stream of blood. At the end there are about ten incisions, thin and long. A smile curves my face. I haven’t been this happy in a while.

I rinse off the blood, wash the razor and store it in the cabinet for future use. I slowly walk back into the bedroom and look at the uninviting bed with the blankets in a heap. I straighten them and get in. The cuts are burning now, but I do nothing to stop it.

I think about what I’ve done. The first step is always the hardest they say, and they’re right. I think about my parents and my “friends” and wonder how in God’s name I’ve become this hopeless.

Maybe it wasn’t their entire fault. Maybe I just was never good enough. I wonder if at any stage they feel as bad as I feel right now. Alone, isolated, useless and hopeless. Tears come and I don’t make an effort to stop them. Possible answers to all my questions formulate in my head, but none of them seem correct. I slowly dose off to sleep, knowing a better life awaits me in my dreams.