The Guide to Happiness

Tip 1: Accept Yourself

Oliver Jones
London
1962
**

Its cold. So unbearably cold. There's a chill gnawing at my skin as it slowly consumes my body. I can't will myself to get up. So I sit there, vulnerable.

I haven't the faintest idea why I didn't force myself get up. It would perfectly logical to, but it seems like all logic has been thrown out the window at this point. I remain on the cold ground, shivering and coiling myself into a ball.

Snow starts to fall ever so lightly, dusting my cheeks in crystalized ice. For some unknown reason, the snow comforts me. To any other person, it would make them uncomfortable and rigid. But the snow only calms my aching nerves. I smile slightly, forgetting that my fingers and toes are going numb.

"Get up. Why are you just laying there? You're going to freeze to death." My mind shouted relentlessly at me. In a way, it made me feel like I was gaining sanity. Not that I had any sanity left. I am laying on the ground in the middle of a blizzard, for God's sake.

I breath heavily, and feel the frosty air burn my lungs. It's hard to breath. Every intake of air is agonizing, and it makes me wheeze, choking gasps escaping my throat. Still, I lay there like a dead animal, and close my eyes slightly.

I could fall asleep. It would be so easy, just to let myself succumb to the numb feeling in my body. To escape from it all right here, right now was seemingly the most pleasant thought in my mind.

Life or death is easier to control than you would think. All it takes is one thrust of a blade, or one pull of a trigger. It's no wonder humans are killing each other without conscience. It's so simple. Almost too simple.

My body goes completely numb in minutes, the warmth in my fingers and toes gone, and the color in my face fading to a pale shade. It would be mere minutes before my world would fade to black. I repeatedly ask myself why i'm doing this. The answer is almost immediate, "You are a disappointment."

I don't move when I hear my father shove the door open and curse at me to "Get up and stop acting like a whiny little bitch." But what he doesn't know is that I'm starting to freeze to death. I lift my head with effort to see the look of rage on his face. Accompanied with his dirty grey hair, plump figure (putting it lightly), and swaying walk. I smirk slightly with the last of my strength. "You're too late." I say to him, although it comes out breathy and strained.

He squints in confusion and suddenly realizes the severity of the situation. "You little-" He curses me out and lifts my aching body off the ground. I try to resist, but all of my strength has been withered.

It's a long walk back to the house but he still doesn't let me go. My head lolls to the side and my limbs seem lifeless. They sway with every step my drunk father takes.

I haven't a clue as to why he is doing this. He hates me, he always has. In his eyes, I'm a disappointment. I don't play sports. I'm not popular. I'm not like other boys, and I haven't done anything that benefits my father's reputation. It makes me sick that he would want a replacement son.

By the time my father gets to the front door, he drops- no, throws me on the living room hardwood floor. Pain shoots up into my spine and I ache even more. But it jolts me awake and I realize I am still alive. But I can't move. I try to curl my toes. Nothing happens.

My father throws a blanket on me and takes another swig of whiskey as he watches me intently. As if he is figuring out what to do with me.

He nudges my foot and I move it slightly to avoid him kicking me. I have become good at avoiding a punch thrown my way or a bottle flung at me. He nods and mutters to himself "Yep. Still breathing." No emotion is evident in his voice.

He takes a few more swigs and downs the bottle. It smashes on the hard wood floor and he curses yet again. He gives me another glance as if to say "He's fine." And storms off to his room where he'll drink the night away. Typical.

I can feel the frost on my face slowly start to melt and I'm grateful for the warmth in the room. "Get up," My brain tells me. But any attempt to do so would result in excruciating pain. I try not to whimper as I drag my arms across the floor to push myself up. My muscles ache and my toes and fingers are throbbing. I look down at my feet and they are red and raw. One of my toes is starting to tear from the ligament of my foot and I panic.

I drag myself across the floor and reach for something, anything to wrap my toe in. I find a paper towel. I grab it with shaking hands and wrap it around the loosening piece of flesh. To my surprise, there is no blood. Just dead, pale skin. I wince as I tighten it. But it will have to do.

My father has little money, so there was no way he could take me to a hospital. Not that he would even if he did have the money. Everything was always "Too much effort."

I slump against the wall, trying to level my erratic breathing, counting each pathetic, weak breath. 1...2...3...4. I repeated this until my natural rhythm was back to normal. "Calm down. Get a grip."

I run a hand down my face, regaining my composure. I must look idiotic slumped against the wall, my neck awkwardly angled to the side and a smashed beer bottle to keep me company. But I don't seem to care in the slightest. That doesn't come as a surprise to me. I've never cared about anything. I guess I never will.