Undead

38; consequences [pt 2]

One of the most difficult days in my life that I could remember. It was an ordinary school day, but that's what made it so painful. School itself was fine - I always excelled with my grades and whatnot. It's the social aspect that was causing my downfall. I didn't really have a social life; I lived in the shadows of my popular older brother Mijo. We were total opposites when it came to school. I was a genius and had no interest in the sports teams that were offered; Mijo on the other hand slacked off with his grades but made up for it on the football team. Even though I was obviously more intelligent than he was, I was still put on the back burner. Not that I expected anybody to kiss my ass or anything, but our foster dad was always excited to go to his football games and barely batted an eyelash when I asked for help with homework.

Oh well.

This particular afternoon was bad. I was able to call my mom from the nurse's office and ask if I could be picked up early. I complained of an oncoming panic attack, feeling it stir my gut and overwhelm me with nausea, but the real reason was because people were looking at me funny. They pointed and whispered as soon as word got out about my encounter. Part of me wondered if it was Mijo who exposed the secret, but I was never certain. I just knew it was him. Who else would tell?

The nightmares were bad enough for me to handle, but now I had to deal with my friends turning their backs on me? And Mijo did nothing to help; he didn't back me up or anything. It was taboo to him. Behind closed doors, sure he consoled me like a brother should. But in public, he was different. Everyone was.

I was fed up. My head was spinning with those golden eyes glaring at me in my mind. Her voice was chanting in my ears, and I could hear my classmates laughing at me all over again for being crazy. That word always made me sick. That word was degrading. It was a label I would forever be stuck with. It was a word that was tattooed on my forehead with invisible ink. It was a word that wrapped around my heart, squeezing until I felt light headed and saw that bright white light above my head - welcoming me home to my parents after all this time. Thirteen years later.

I flipped up my mattress and found my stash of cigarettes and my blade, shoving my window up and climbing through the threshold and onto the roof outside that overlooked my front yard. Yes I was aware that it was out in the open for my neighbors to see but I didn't give a fuck. This was the solitude and the privacy I wanted. I lit a cigarette and leaned up against the side of the house, waiting for the slurs in my mind to die down. But they never did.

I turned the blade over between my fingers and wondered what damage I wanted to do to myself. I only had one tattoo - the skull and halo on my right hand. It was to seal the bond between me and Mijo. It's funny how it didn't seem as important to me anymore now that I started realizing what was going on with him.

If I could have, I would've carved it right off my skin. That's how low and betrayed I felt. But like always, my hesitations would go unnoticed until I would finally have to just brush it off and pretend they everything was perfect between the two of us.

I turned my left wrist over and ran a fingertip over the edge of the blade with the other hand. The hair on my arms raised up with a visible shiver, and I let my eyelids close slowly.

"Hey!" I coulda sworn the voice sounded in my head but I ignored it. I balled my hand into a fist and dragged corner of the razor against my wrist, wincing and grunting against the letter that was forming. "Hey, what're you doing?"

My body loosened as I began to feel the pain was I causing to myself, but oddly it felt nice. It felt nice to actually physically feel something. For weeks since my sighting, I felt like I no longer felt anything. I felt nothing but emotions. I didn't feel the clothes on my body. I didn't feel when my foster mom wrapped her arms around me in a hug. I didn't feel when my foster dad would touch my shoulder to say hello after a long shift at the precinct. I didn't feel my sheets or blankets or pillows on my bed. I didn't feel the numerous pills I swallowed in attempt to numb the emotional and psychological pain. I was just an empty shell. An abandoned building. An empty notebook that was waiting to feel the sensation of a pencil or pen striking against the pages.