A Collection Of Short Stories

Urges

WARNING: THIS SHORT STORY MAY CONTAIN TRIGGERING CONTENT. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

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Urges. Wants. Needs.
They can happen randomly, at times when you least want them to, are trying to keep your head level and focused, or even when you are hyped up on anxiety.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
You could be carrying on with your day, happy and living and enjoying life; one small thing upsets you and you try so hard to make it not bother you, affect you. But it does. It brings back so many things that you have tried to forget for so long, so many painful memories and emotions that now crash back down on you in a tidal wave, drowning you in the past.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Slowly, it creeps up on you. The ice cold burning, slicing, slashing across where you once did before. You can't stop it, really. No matter what you do, it's always there, never once leaving you alone. You'll distract yourself with words on a page, with people around you, with anything you can... But nothing ever works. No matter how hard you try, over and over again, nothing ever works.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
You grit your teeth, bite down hard and force it all to the back of your mind. Your throat becomes raw, mouth dry and eyes water. You itch all over, and the burning——oh, the burning!——it never stops.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Internally, you're screaming and scratching and clawing your way up from the ever-deepening hole poised to devour you. Externally, you're holding back tears as you slowly start to scratch where the urges are the most. You can't help it, and nobody really understands either——not that you expected them to.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Sometimes, you can breathe and they go away. Eventually, but they do. And other times? You can see the light above you, and you climb up and out of harms way. You can feel the soft grass beneath your hands as you finally reach the top about to lift yourself out.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Just when you thought you were free, you spot something that weakens your arms when you need then the most, something from far below latches onto your thrashing legs and drags you down, down, down, back into the depths you thought you had escaped.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
You fight it one last time, giving it all that you have to just break free and soar back into the light. Its grip holds strong and, despite your best efforts, you can't fight anymore. All your energy is gone, drained from you so suddenly leaving you numb and unfeeling. And that's what hurts. You can see your friends and loved ones reaching down into the hole to help you out. You know you can reach up and grab onto their hands. But you're afraid.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
You're afraid that they might not be strong enough to help you, that you might drag them down with you. And you're just so damn tired. Even of you had wanted to, or tried to, you just can't reach up and grab their hands. You have nothing left in you. And you hate yourself for it. For even making them worry. For drawing attention to you, you selfish attention seeking whore. That's right, that's what you are; I mean, that's what everyone else calls you for acting this way, right?
Urges. Wants. Needs.
You think of everything else that anyone has ever said about you, to your face or behind your back. Worthless. Slave. Piece of shit. Bitch. Whore. Slut. Failure. Wrong. Unholy. Sinner. Disgusting. Ugly. Selfish. Egotistical. Psychopath. Each word piles up like dirt being thrown on a coffin just lowered into its grave——your grave. You can't get out. You can't scream for help. You're buried alive, and there's nothing you can do.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
But you don't want to die. Not here. Not now. So you scream. You finally let it all out. You don't keep silent anymore. You need help, and you're trying to get it now. You scream and scream, louder and louder because you know they can't hear you through the dirt, through everything burying you alive. You scream, so fucking loud, hiping they come and save you, help you out. Your throat is raw, parched, and yet you continue to scream as you sob freely, unashamed of your tears, your weaknesses.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Sometimes, people can hear you if you scream loud enough. They dig you out of your grave, hold you, care for you. Love you. And other times, people never come for you. They leave you there, in your grave, burried under so many words and lies and every negative thing thrown in your face, just screaming. Screaming for help, for someone to come save you.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Please. Someone just help me. I know I couldn't ask for help then, but I'm asking for it now. You wouldn't leave me here to die, would you? You're supposed to care. You have to care, otherwise, why would you have bothered to waste your time with me? Hello? Someone? Anyone there? Hello? Please, someone, help me! Save me! I need your help! Please?! HELLO?! SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP ME! HELP ME! PLEASE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE HERE! HELP ME! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP! I'M NOT DYING HERE! NOT NOW! NOT LIKE THIS! PLEASE?!
Urges. Wants. Needs.
Your mind is racing. Heart pounding. Fists scraped and bleeding from the constant pounding against your coffin's lid. You can't tell if someone has tried to help you. You don't think anyone has.
And then you feel them again.
The ice cold burning, slicing, slashing across where you once did before. You're body becomes paralysed; all you can focus on in them.
Urges. Wants. Needs.
You can't fight it anymore. You've tried so hard. And nothing has come of it.
So you give in. You give in so hard, fast, visciously, and you know somewhere deep down this is wrong, and you should stop. But you can't.
You've given into your urges.
Your wants.
Your needs.
And it's like a breath of life.