The Contradiction of Living

III

It's strange to look at yourself in the mirror, compared to the you in your mind. Have you ever done that? I don't recommend it. I like the me in my head. They're attractive and witty and interesting and worth something. The me in the mirror is fifty shades of ugly and rude when they try to be funny and worthless to everyone.

Either way, whichever truly exists, they were failing. Every day I went to war, and every day I lost another piece to myself. Thoughts of the sweet relief of suicide flooded my mind, mingled with thoughts of wanting to help others. The boy who sat next to me in third period made a comment about hating himself. All I wanted to do was help him, tell him that he was amazing and that he had nothing to hate. But I couldn't.

On that day, the sadness had settled so deeply into my bones that I had no hope of saving myself, let alone someone else. I got home and cried, slamming my fists into the walls in rage. I was such a horrid failure. Three deeper, bloodier cuts lined each of my hips when I went to bed.

I didn't sleep, though. I never sleep. There's no rest for me. I lay there, as my demons grew bigger, stronger, and the shadows of my room twisted into personifications of them, making me curl under my blankets in fear. My biggest fear has always been myself.

Looking into the blackened, tortured souls of hell that showed themselves to me lived inside me. They didn't just appear randomly. I carried that darkness, that despair, that shame, that wretchedness deep within my soul.

I've heard the saying "When I die I'll go to heaven cause I've spent my time in hell." Have you? I don't think it's true, though. I know have spent plenty of time in hell, I know I live hell every day, but I don't think it's bad enough for me. A mistake. All I see in my future is a new hell I have yet to explore.

In some ways, it sounds almost exciting, don't you think? Exploring something new for the first time, learning all it's deepest secrets and darkest mysteries. But then there's the hell part. Definitely not fun. Trust me.

You wouldn't really know. Your life is beautiful, blossoming, because you have one. I don't like telling you much about myself, as you know, but know this. While I was alive, once, millennia ago, I'm not anymore. No. Definitely not alive. Though sometimes I wish I was.

Have you ever heard of that before? Wishing to be alive. Wishing for death is-dare I say it?- common. Wishing for life, that is cruel. Because of it's cruelty it is rare. Still, I long for it.

Maybe that will be my new hell. Life. How petty some people seem to find it. I fantasize of one day ruling Life. I dream of being the master of each day, commander of every night. I want power, true. Not just any power, though. Power over Life, over living.

My biggest fear is irrelevance. Power takes away every form of irrelevance, so I suppose that makes power my greatest desire. I know it's not, though. There's something I want more, but I will never dare say what. To do so would make it known, would give the world time to make sure I never got this thing. What remains unknown remains untouched. Once it has been said, a dream is lost.

Or, perhaps, not lost, just inexplicably ruined. It cannot become a reality once brought into this one, for it is meant to be an escape into another reality. They cannot coincide, this reality and dreams. For dreams are too pure and this reality too harsh, dreams are destroyed and reality only gains power it had lost.

A vicious cycle of speaking and regretting. Silence is much better, if you ask me. I would much rather sit in a room so silent I go insane than sit in a room full of noise. Noise. Such an inexplicable, bothersome thing.

The best sound are the ones your mind creates when it's too quiet for there to be any real noise. The best sounds are those of your blood rushing through your veins, your heart thumping in your chest as you meet the eyes of the one who holds it-no.

I take that back. The best noise is a real noise. So beautifully real. The best noise is that soft patter of red droplets running down fingertips and racing off legs, softly falling upon tiled floor. Yes, that is the best sound. Perhaps the only acceptable one. The one of the silent scream torn from your throat and lungs, ripped from your soul, as you slowly fall apart inside.

Those are the best sounds, for they are wholly quiet, only for one's own ears, but with an impact on many. A shadow with as much relevance as the sun. Truly these are the most perfect sounds, the most pure.

I smile to myself, contorting my wrist, making the blood leave a path over my fingertips before dropping to the floor. The scream came earlier, along with the tears that were now nothing more than tight streaks down my face.

I like the feeling of creating something pure, from my wretched existence. Truly, everyone does hate me. They may claim otherwise, but it's all a lie. It's always a lie. I make another slash.

We're getting closer to the good part of my story. Can you feel the anticipation building? It's a sick feeling, but you still want to know, don't you? You want to know how I did it. You want to know the secret. Not yet. Not yet.