Perspective

Chapter 2 (Pt 1)

D:

I'm not just a jigsaw that has lost a piece. I'm a jigsaw that wasn't even taken out of the box.

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Breathing is a distraction that you don't know exists. It distracts you from the fact that you're hanging onto a lifeline.Without your lungs, you're dead.

Everyone has their own lifelines too. I'm not talking about that palm-reading crap; your life line, head line and heart line. Complete bullshit. According to an online palm-reading survey, I'm 'living my best life'; meaning I'm happy, popular and successful...

Ha

Your lifeline reflects your deepest emotions. It's what makes you keep on going, just like your lungs. It could be your parent's love , or even a book. You always go back to it when life is at its worst.

Luckily -and surprisingly- I have two. Music and sleep. Yesterday, I was untimely deprived of one. That's what happens when you rely on an object instead of a person. It will inevitably break.

And sleep- the couple hours that I have away from painful reality. Even nightmares are nothing compared to the bullying I deal with daily.

It's a real life nightmare.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can vividly remember the dream I just woke up from.

I was being suffocated. I tried so hard to breathe. I really, really tried. But then I realised that it was my mind trying to help itself. It wanted to free itself, so I let it. I let go.

I can't put my finger on what I felt. It was like I was relieved, but hoping someone would save me at the same time. Of course, no one saved me . Just like in real life. I died right there and then, in the pitch black void of my dream, and not a single soul saw it or cared.

It was a taunt, a taste of the sweet release that I could feel if only i gave in to the pain.

But I'm awake now. As a reflex, I check the pulse that's hypnotically repeating.

I'm still alive. Oh.
I should probably be happy about that shouldn't I?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My parents are just there. They won't comfort me with a 'have a good day!' or a 'stay strong!' because they're too busy arguing over every single thing. I swear to God, Mum once  snapped at Dad for putting a cushion upside down, to which he, the peaceful individual that he is, responded by throwing the cushion at the TV. Nevertheless, we don't have a TV anymore.

I creep down the shiny wooden stairs to the kitchen, to pack my lunch without waking them to avoid the hell of mornings.

What will it be today? Mouldy bread with cheese or just mouldy bread?

Mum won't let allow fresh food because she's saving up money to move out. Luckily I have a bit of extra money from my part time job; enough to keep at least me on my feet. We live in a nice house, but Dad got fired and financial issues just keep flooding in.

Oh we've ran out of bread.

I leave the house with a lighter bag than usual, and I can already hear screaming from behind me.

Just in time

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P:
There were no stars last night. Not even a flicker of hope for my future here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With a pat and a bag on my back, I'm already leaving for the second day at school. And I'm not thrilled if I'm being honest. I was showered with questions from my parents last night about my new friends and classes and teachers but I mostly just smiled and repeated 'yeah, good good.' and 'it was great!'. I hate lying but it felt like second nature yesterday.

In reality I was mortified. I didn't talk to anyone and no one talked to me. I survived but I didn't live. And that's not me.

I told myself that I'd make friends, but that was my mindset before I witnessed bullying for the first time in my life. And it was intense to say the least.

It was dozens of kids at once. Not one or two people. Tens of my classmates simultaneously doing it. And no one stopped it and I didn't either.  Each witness should be held accountable for the pain the victim feels. I can't live with the guilt already.

Classes flew by. I had my head down and no one cared that I was new so at least I avoided the spotlight. I didn't want to be the next victim. I guess that's pretty selfish.

But through my stinging eyes and blurred vision, my tightened throat and fake grin, I can safely say that for me, ANY attention is better than none.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'PHILIP!'
'Sweety, before you leave for school, can you buy me some flour?!'

'And some beer too'

'Okay Mum, and no Dad.'

Before stepping out the uncomfortably short door, I turn around and give a big smile to my parents. But the second I feel the concrete below my feet, my heart plummets.

Day two. The day Phil never returns.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After a short ten minute walk, I finally arrive at an ancient little corner shop (thanks to Google Maps)- it kind of reminds me of my hometown.

Pushing the door open, I expect a welcoming ring, but instead there's a quick, sharp gasp for air.

'Agh..'

'OOOH my god,  are you okay?!' I'm so so-'

Before I finish my sentence I exchange eye contact with the person I unwillingly, but violently attacked with the door. I'd remember those eyes anywhere. Those eyes that were dug into my brain from yesterday.

'N-  no, it's o-okay...'

He's obviously used to pain. He barely twitched. It's as though he had to fake the reaction. And I hit him really, really hard.

Starting to rub it a bit, he pulls his fully black sleeve up to reveal a red patch against the freckle-filled skin.

OH!

Unzipping my backpack, I reveal a cold bottle and try to apply pressure on the bruise to be. I'm so clumsy that I know what to do in the case of any accident. I'm practically a living flop.

But regardless of the obvious comfort it gives, the chestnut haired stranger tugs his arm away.

'No, I'm really okay. S-sorry...'

And out of the door he disappears, dodging past me, but slightly rubbing sleeves.

But I won't leave him in pain again.

Totally dismissing my mother's need for flour ,I run right back outside. Puffing and wheezing, I catch up but need a few breaths to maintain a healthy sounding respiration.

'H-h-... Howell... r-right?'

Startled, 'howell' turns round and stops suddenly. He scans my face, as if to check that I'm no danger to him. I guess he determined that I'm not.

'Umm, Dan actually... Dan Howell..'

I let out a little smile. A tiny but genuine smile that creeps through my face. I'm actually talking to someone here. And it reflects on Dan's face too. But it's a broken reflection, through a mirror that is smashed into tiny shards. Nevertheless, a smile.

'Oh!! Nice to meet you Dan! I'm phil. I'm so so sorry about that though! Are you definitely okay?'

Pretty stupid question. He's not.

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