And so it begins.....
....................
D
This is where it all leads when a large heap of shit gets down--the water tank up above the fire exit of her shitty apartment.
But when is she ever not up here?
There are times she wished she was Lady Liberty, with her torch and her determined stance and courageous will to fight. Like she could conquer everything in her will, setting aside flight, wears fight like a billowing cape. Unlike she, hiding under a Lady Liberty-like facade, but inside could barely stand up, curl up into a corner like a piece of dust, like the single ounce of dignity she holds now blown, into thin air. Torch blown, and courage gone.
Just as soon as she climbed up the creaky and rusty ladder of the water tank, she started kicking. Kicking, and yelling, and kicking everywhere and yelling, more like cursing the world when her feet collided with the metal railing of the tank.
"Fucking shit! Fucking shitty tank, fucking shitty Daddy! Shit, shit, shit!"
Just went it felt like she couldn't yell any profanities any longer she started to ignore the pain that shot up her toe and collapsed, leaning in the tank for sustenance, as if it was the one tether that holds her life together.
She might or might not purposely hit her head in the tank several times. She just didn't care anymore. Caring only leads to shit.
And she might or might not be scratching the skin of her thighs vigorously. 'Cause that's what she does, if people kept inflicting her pain, might as well inflict it herself--atleast she has control of doing something. She liked control more than anything. She scratched on her skin when it felt too much, when she's mad at herself, at anyone, and mostly because she's infuriated of everything.
It was a habit back in middle school when her 12-year old self discovered the dire need of self control. Whether it be staying later than usual on a school night because she can't doze off, she would scratch herself raw til she felt her eyelids heavy, or spending way too much time on her little nook she'd made in their basement sneaking jars and jars of sweets and treacle her mother makes, and when she's bored she'd scratch her skin again, her sides and thighs a common target, or sneaking menthols from her father just because she was curious of what it felt like,--shit.
Even when the doctors told her her left lung is rather weaker than the other one, even when at nights she'd wake up feeling like her chest will combust.
But she ended up loving it. She'd inflict pain to herself at a young age she'd take half of her life counting of the scars she beheld, yet she felt empowered. Just for once, if she could control something in her favor, this will be it.
Fuck physical pain when you're feeling more inside.
.................
H
He didn't know yet the insides and outs of the new place they've moved in, but he knew one thing-- to get out for some fresh air-- bloody hell, he even forgot what fresh air really felt like for a long time.
The hallway outside their place isn't enough of a breather, so when he scanned the expanse of the place from their slightly deteriorated area of a patio, that's when he saw the water tank above the adjacent flat complex. He knew of the dangers of climbing up a corroding fire exit ladder, but after a massive row and being in the same room as him, it nearly puts him to suffocation.
