To See The Stars

Chapter Fourteen: Jack

In David's Levithan's book, 'Will Grayson, Will Grayson', the character Will Grayson said, "I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me."

And I can't help but find myself agreeing to this. There's just been this bubbling rage rising inside of me. I find myself waking up in a new scene. Coming to awareness halfway through a school day, or finding myself ordering a hot chocolate in a cafe when I didn't even remember leaving the house. I am drifting through this life. Roaming through scene after scene. Do this, do that, clean this, clean that, hide from him, help him. Just a never ending cycle of sorta kinda existing but not really.

I find myself sitting on a park bench, just staring at the swings, like a total creep. When I find myself noticing where I am, colors start to spill into the sides of my vision and fill the blackhole that was the scene before me. The colors form into a cool, fall day, with kids running across wood chips chasing one another and couples walking hand in hand along the asphalt. I reach up to pull my hood on my hoodie up, only to realize that I'm not in fact wearing a hoodie, but instead a very short sleeved tank top. No wonder, I'm cold. How did I even make it outside without noticing? Was I really that out of it? And I don't think I even know where this park is, what's wrong with me?

I lean forwards and clench my head with my hands. Running a hand through my hair, and keeping my hands gripped over my ears, blocking the noise. I stare at my tattered black boots, and the concrete that sits beneath it, tracing the lines with each upsetting thought. Instead of breaking down, I just get angry. But a sad angry, like when you cry but you are yelling and breaking shit, while you do. That kind of thing. People occasionally look at me, perhaps wondering if they should stop, but they don't; they just glance and then keep walking. I'm invisible, I'm living on the edge of reality wondering if any of this is even real.

Every time I feel the cold air blow against my skin, my anger boils. I want to swipe through something with a knife, I want to hurt someone, I want to cause some damage. But it's not like I have that kind of strength, and quite honestly I doubt I'd have it in me to truly hurt someone. I just want to escape this anger before it consumes me. And I know how that always ends, I saw it happen to my dad when mom died.

He blamed himself, and in the process destroyed himself. He was drunk most days but even when he wasn't, he was angry, and spiteful. For him, drinking gave him a way out, but it also made him worse. He stopped taking care of himself, so the house turned into my responsibility. He was always so angry with himself, and especially with me. He hated the world and if given the opportunity, he would burn it to the ground.

I lock my anger deep inside this small weak body of mine. Perhaps that's part of the reason why I'm so fucked up. I refuse to express natural emotions because of irrational fears. Noah would point out these cognitive distortions in a heartbeat and then give me that famous sweet gentle blue eyed look that says, "Don't worry if your brain is stupid, cause I'm here for you."

There are so many people who agree with my hateful ideas. Like Warren Ellis, who said in their book 'Transmetropolitan, Vol. 3: Year of the Bastard' ,
"By four o'clock, I've discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead."

I'd like to imagine that one day I will wake up and I'll be in a new plane of existence. That one day my heart will burn me apart and I'll just be a vessel. I'd like to imagine that one day someone will find my brain scattered against my bedroom walls and think wow, he had some nice brains. I'd like to imagine that the world would forget about that one kid who was really quiet and depressed, and committed suicide. I'd like to just have never existed in the first place.

Waking up, hurts. Cause in that brief moment where I don't know where I am, I feel at peace. Until the realization comes. And that's always followed by pain.

I'd probably have just continued to sit there, likely all night, if it wasn't for the ball that collided with my leg. And just like that, I was pulled out of the vacuum that is my mind, and soon I'm raising my head to look at the perpetrator.

A tiny human(otherwise known as a child) stands in front of me, head tilted as if to ask, why do you look so pathetic?

I probably shouldn't have said anything, but my mouth had already started to open and move, before I could have the sense to close it. So I, rather rudely might I add, asked, "What do yo-," I have to clear my throat in the middle, "What do you, what do you want?" My throat keeps cracking and I sound like I'm 11 again.

"My ball." She gestures towards my feet.

"What bal- Oh. That ball,", I say, noticing the ball for the 'first' time. Even though! Mere seconds ago, the ball bumped into my own legs!

Being the worst conversationalist is bad enough but when you add my mushy brain into the mix you get conversations like this, where I quite brilliantly ask, "Is this your ball?"

"I just said that's my ball! Are you stupid?" She places a hand on her hip and glares at me.

"...yes," I nudge the ball back to her, and she runs off. I watch her rejoin her friends, before I finally get up. I don't remember when, or how exactly but I'm standing in the middle of the road, just watching a car approach.

And I don't move.