Twisted

1: T

I don't remember the last time I rolled out of bed. My limbs tangle with the sheets that twist and wraps around my body. A force of weeping sorrows and numb thoughts weigh my vessel down. Separated from the desire to bathe in the beaming smile which the earth orbits to escape the harsh reality of what I have succumbed to. 

The chemicals insinuate the reoccurring phenomenon of the reality of life and its purpose for mankind. Does a single life conclude to the happiness of the people around them? Or does time stop orbiting for them? Just to make them realise that they have wasted the time and the resources of their loving parents who were guaranteed a 90% possibility of the never returning money they have so preciously bruised themselves for?

I am the waste my parents so preciously bruised for. Except time won't stop orbiting for me. Days are long spent on eyes drilled in books on motivation and adventure which my loving parents have so lovingly filled my room with the hope so some type of spark of a need to reverse the chemical wiring of my mind to finally join my family for dinner again. These books paint my walls with the thoughts of optimism and aspiration, the creature that burrows inside does not quite reflect that.

My bed would lay in the very corner of the room nearest to the window that framed the outside of the home, my doctor suggests to my parents that sunlight helps. A desk stands a meter away from the bed littered with torn up paper and ruined notebooks coated with a fine layer of dust. Shelves of books mirror the room but leave space to allow the door to swing back and front. If I had my way with the room, the bed would be pressed against the opposite end of the room with the desk barricading the large window. The rows and rows of thin panels never did its job properly.

My parents took away anything sharp in my room. But I found a way. It's not as effective but I found a way.

Knock Knock

The thin wood resonates the striking knuckle which is soon followed by the whiny clink of the metal scraping against the ceramic plate.

'Emma? Honey, dinner is ready. Do you want to come down?"

I sit there, waiting. I don't answer because I don't have to. My silence does.

A hushed sigh pushes through the wood then the noisy clank of the plate settles on the floor.I can't eat with my family. I simply can't. It's frustrating to see their faces' twist and turn as if their 'expression' would trigger me into compulsion and vomiting thoughts of hollowness. It is the stare that kills me.

The thought of sitting there sends rushes of itches and fits of fidgeting. Alarms wail with the beat of clanking utensils and scraping plates. Knees shaking to the pulses of my heart and the continuous urge to run. Their eyes analyse me like a rare specimen but gaze cage me still.

They say that 'the eyes are the window to one's soul', that's why judgment, disappointment and sadness would roll tides off me. Their windows paralyse me into a cold stone that once known to exist.

To crack and shatter this stone shell, thin line of blood ripple through my skin and tampered scabs open to the naked eye needs to scar some sense into me.

My hand no longer can rest gracefully against my lap but shake and wither.
I like to decorate. Decorate my skin with lines and scabs as serenity's hand rest on my shoulders.

Blankets and blankets lay heavily against me but I like it. It's like a barrier that protects me except it's my mind that I need protection from. I further burrow my head in the heap of cloths that softly caress my face almost soothing my erratic heart. My arm wants something to wrap around but the memory of the plush bunny ripped apart with stuffing under my nails reminds me that I can't.

I feels a sudden tug dragging my lips down. But I close my eyes, hoping that the sterile white would disappear.

The sudden thumping of footsteps echos and spread across the floorboards like a ripple in a water. Then the ripples rest in front of my door and a raging groan breathes into my door.

My doorknob furiously twist and rattle. A burst of white with a strong silhouette cast the carpet floor.

"Seriously, Emma! You haven't even touch your food. No wonder mum is frantic about!"

My sister doesn't realise her words are falling into deaf ears as she continues to ramble on. I can feel my nails dig deep into my palm, pulsing in temple begin to settle into a headache. The annoyance start to bubble up in me then sudden...

"This is why I hate you"

She fell silent.

Although her shadow sits there, casted by the white light,  it doesn't move. It stays still and frozen but a single sob break her facade. I starts counting to 10 and by the time I reach 9, her footsteps quickly turns and fade into patters in the hallway until a slam of her door rattles the house.

Sluggishly, I turn my head to peak over but the strong light blinds me for a moment before my sight clears. 

A full plate of food lays on the ground. Meanlessly and untouched. My hands pat around the bed until it sets a grip on a heavy pillow. Slinging it above my head and finally projectilling it to the door. With a  single shot, the door lazier closes and the soft click of the lock. 

My eyes once again trail to the plate of food on the floor. Meanlessly and uselessly. 

Casting my gaze away from the plate and resting my head on the pillow just like before.

That plate reminds me of me.

That plate lays meanlessly just like me.