How To Kill a Dolphin

『1』

    
     You’d think that the heart–being the second most vital organ–when broken would make a 432-hertz loud bass.

     But the truth is, only you can hear it when it falls apart. Others who don’t notice won’t give any damn.

     And I think that’s what kills it. The fact that not even a single soul paid attention is enough to annihilate the living thing in it. Because our hearts are like dolphins—soft and delicate. Small things could tear it apart. Searing truths could rip it open.

     They say it’s a good thing for it makes us stronger—better version of ourselves. But why am I not? Why can’t I be more than I am? Why can’t I be the person they want me to be? Why am I like this?

     Silent tears escaped my swollen eyes as I held the pen suspended half an inch from the smooth surface of the paper. My chest constricted causing me to drop the poor tool. I clutched the stitch below my collar bone with shaking fingers as I struggled to ease my labored panting. My shoulders began to shake wildly and uncontrollably as I heaved forward the table, grabbing out for the bottle I always use in times like this. It’s just one of my episodes; this’ll stop if I just tell myself to get a grip while hitting my head with the bottle.

     But the bottle was out of reach and my vision was turning foggy.

     What the hell? I was sliding down the wooden chair when I had the idea. I looked at the unsteady floor and furiously banged my head on the rough cement.

     Once.

     Twice.

     Thrice.

     Oh please get a grip!

     It was excruciating. I didn’t lost consciousness when I should’ve had. My head was on fire, like it was being split in half by a massive chainsaw. I cried out once as I put a hand on my forehead. It was wet and sticky and as I saw my fingers, it was covered in red liquid.

     I barely had time to be shock when the door flew open. Casting a vast shadow on my fetal position was her. Blazing eyes greeted my situation and I’ve never felt so exposed. I was frozen like a deer caught in headlights. For some reason I can’t fundamentally grasp, I felt reverently afraid of her.

     As she took an intimidating step forward, I found myself cowering to the corner like a terrified little kitten. The gooey substance was quietly dripping down my flannel shirt to the already stained floor. The wound probably needs several stitches but I have no time to be wary about it, the horror was right up front, stalking towards me with eyes of a predator to its prey. In her eyes, I saw only bloodlust.

     My heart was thudding against my rib cage as if it too wanted to come out and leave this Tophet-like room.  I focused on calming myself and hoping for something not to happen. She wouldn’t hurt me in this state, would she?

     Oh how wrong I was.

     Her eyes left me briefly then found the steel bottle I was looking for. She threw me another glance–a malignant one–before taking the bottle.

     I raised my arms to shield for the assault, closing both eyes tightly. And just like in some slow-motioned movie, it didn’t come.

     What was the hold up? The anticipated attack was halted, it was a comforting thought.

     But as I looked up at her, it made me want to wish she’d hit me instead.
She opened the bottle’s lid torturously slow and before my eyes, before I remember I have muscles to stop her, she poured its content on the paper I was working on.

     A scream of anguish and fright was stuck in my throat forcing itself out, but ending up being a small sob. I wanted to move and snatch the paper away but my whole body felt as if it just wanted to crumble on the spot. I just wanted to dissolve right there.

     My emotions were a scrambled mess, my thoughts just a hazy plea for everything to cease. It was worse than before. But I was just as helpless and worthless.

     “Don’t you think I don't know what you’re up to?” she asked with a smirk before I went unconscious.