Roleplay solos

Maleah, 2. Hurt.

{Waking up alone took a toll like no other. The black throbbing hole in her chest consumed her day and night, throwing her into a depression that her body couldn't handle. Her chest burned and ached, the loneliness causing her heart to begin to literally break. The doctors put her under for a medically induced coma for just a little while, just long enough to give her heart a rest, time for repair from the breaking. Never in her life had she been so alone. Nobody came to see her. That would have killed her, knowing that. But luckily she was unaware, her body grasping at the relief like a recovering alcoholic ached for the finest whiskey in the world. She was healed, and yet when the doctors brought her to, the loneliness hit her once again and she spiraled.}

Diary,

A week after the hospital release, and here I am. Its 3 am and I can't sleep. The apartment echos and mocks me, my sadness. The taunting is too much, the twinkle lights and photos from Greece are laughing at me and I want to shred them all, but they are /the only/ reminder that yes, someone did love me. I didn't dream myself a beautiful wife, nor did I fantasize my son. This all happened. Ever since I came out of my coma it's like...a whole year of my life is trying to recede, retreat back into the ocean of my mind. The words in the sand are trying, begging to be forgotten, and every time I close my eyes, I almost let them. But they are so real, these memories. I know this, and yet so convincing in ways I don't expect. My self doubt fuels one side, telling me there is no way someone could have loved me. I never had a wife. And then the cruel, logical reality sinks in, telling me it is so. Her name was Sophia, but things changed and that's why I'm alone again. And fuck, I can't tell you how much I hate it. The photos tell me we were happy, and so desperately in love. My eyes and hands clung to her, knowing that if I let up loving her that she would leave. And that must be the case. I must've messed it all up, for she is nowhere to be seen.

And the baby! Gods, he is beautiful. He's so radiantly unaware of the torment I have underwent, so mindless to the fact that I am his mother. I have always dreamed of being able to have a family, and so I did, but now all traces of my wife and son seem to have been swept from my apartment, but for this wall of photos. There is no article of clothing, no pair of shoes, no separate bottle of perfume, no shade of lipstick, no hairbrush that was hers. No toys, no books, no food, no bottles, no diapers that were my boys. Just my mess, my distraught self, my disheveled bedsheets, my cluttered vanity, my same shampoo, my nearly empty fridge. My empty bottles of wine, vodka, bourbon, and smashed cigarette butts littering the floor, the tables, the counters, and the balcony. I haven't seen my friends in weeks, my family in months; I have estranged myself. I'm a hermit, a sad, small, broken shell.

I broke my mirror yesterday morning. I punched my reflection when I tried out a fake smile. I hated to see myself even /try/ to lie about how I was feeling. The glass crunched under my fist and for a fleeting moment I wanted to cry out. Not in pain, but in ecstacy. Seeing my knuckles bleed, the shards of silvery glass embedded in my skin like diamond knuckle dusters, I felt in touch with reality. I felt a small part of my sanity vacate my mind, knowing that if I could look into the mirror, had I not just broken it, I would see myself with a slightly maniacal grin. It frightened and yet thrilled me. So I punched again, the other hand this time. More glass made itself at home in my skin, more at home than I have ever felt. And it went like this for an hour, punch, crunch, bleed, grin. I wanted to cry from the bliss and insanity of the situation, not knowing what was wrong with me and realizing it didn't matter. I could feel again. I could feel pain, physical pain, and I wanted more. I want more. I want to bleed. I need it.