All My Sacrifices: 1
Putting feelings into words. To many, it's easy. I'm part of that many. However, to others, it seems impossible. I'm part of those others, as well. Turns out, you could live your whole life learning to express yourself, only to one day, be forced to suck it up, and lock those feelings away. Because, everyone has heartache. Fools hide it well, but in their eyes. The brilliant, however, hide it in their smile. Because, at the end of the day, you believe in their smile, even as they are being torn to shreds behind it.
------------------------------------
Closing my eyes, I clenched the back of my teeth together. Maybe, if I was lucky, by the time 10 seconds was up, I could manage to go into a self-induced coma. As long as I manage to wake up in another few hours. Maybe that's not actually a coma. Wouldn't that just be fainting?
As the muscles in my throat trembled, I slowly hissed out the breath that I had taken. Wincing yet again, I fought the pain that was coming from my, still dripping, shoulder. When I opened my eyes, I was in control. Bunching up an old T-shirt, I held it to my shoulder, using a shoelace to tie it around and around, forming a makeshift bandage.
With the dripping finally ceasing, I went to the small box that formed my medicine cabinet. As I extracted paper towels, Clorox, some aspirin, clean bandages, and some bonding tape from the box, I pursed my lips, contemplating the small, albeit useful, choices of an excuse I would be able to use this time around. Would one be able to believe I had been chased off my "balcony" by a rabid dog? As I quirked a sardonic smile at the box, I imagined actually having a balcony, let alone being chased off it.
Blowing a chunk of black hair off of my face, I slowly knelt by the pool of blood that I had made. Rather than spattering, my blood had simply dripped, causing the cleanup to be much simpler. Clorox and paper towels. I made as much use of them as I could. Despite my efforts, a roundish stain of red remained plastered on the cracked concrete floor. Blowing more hair out of my face, I undid my "bandage" and properly treated the 3 inch gash along my shoulder blade. I could only hope I hadn't left a trail of blood behind me on my way home. Not that it mattered. By the time the sun rises, I'll be gone. Again. Like a puff of air. Don't worry, I'll still be going to a school. I don't believe I can waste so much schooling only to drop out. If I survived up to senior year, I can survive until I graduate and get to college. Doesn't really matter which school it is, now does it?
I neatly rearranged my box of medicines, and sealed it up. Placing it in the corner of the filthy rathole I called home, I quickly packed and sealed 2 more small boxes. One held my meager supply of clothing, frayed shoes, and the rare makeup, consisting of concealer, eyeliner, chapstick. Oh, and a hairbrush, toothbrush, tooth paste, and moisturizer. 4 years, and this is all I've managed to accumulate. Lastly, the final box held a small set of dishes and cups, silverware, blankets, a pillow, and a pot, along with a bottle and Bunsen Burner I had taken from my school Science Lab.
I pulled on my threadbare T-shirt, and over it, a ragged sweatshirt. The boxy frame of the sweatshirt hung on my small, 5'4", frame, but it did cover up the bandages on my shoulder. Mixed with my ripped, almost destroyed jeans, waist length, ratty, thick black hair, and the sneakers I had dug out of the garbage, it was easy to assume I was a simple street rat.
Those assumptions were correct. Living in the smallest and dirtiest conditions possible was all I could afford. And here I am, skipping out again on rent. I couldn't even pay the measly sum for this pathetic hole. I swept the tangled mess of hair onto the top of my head, securing it with a clock clip, ignoring how half of it spilled from the clip, veiling my face.
Slowly, I crept to the one means of escape and entrance I had, the cracked and broken window. I quickly hauled my boxes over and through to the outside. Sweeping a glance across what had been my home for the past few months, I made sure no traces of me could be found anywhere. Unless they did a sample of the red stain on the floor. It blended in with the countless others of blood that wasn't mine, so I shouldnt be too worried.
Hitching myself on top of the window sill, I hissed out a painful breath. My shoulder wasn't up for this, seeing as how the knife wound still burned like hell. I made a mental note that next time I decide to "rescue" myself, I do it without actually injuring myself in the process.
Grimacing through the pain, I hauled my butt out of the room. I started to walk. I didn't look back. I never do.
