The Broken Ones

The urge to disappear was like magnets coming together. The strength of a bond that was severed and now it was just a freefall to the depths of the ruins of a canyon’s native city. It was as though the carvings in the walls were there to tell more than a story of legends, but of how fear crept into the smallest crevices of your soul and poisoned it to the point of extinction. It wasn’t a thought that was only there when it was required, it was always lurking. Always watching. It knew when you felt great and sank its claws into your heart and hung till your screams echoed inside your head and voiced itself when your own vocal cords could not. It is the things you keep deep inside that make you shake uncontrollably and makes you find the deeper meaning to your “irrational” fears that only make sense to you.

It’s all the things that you said was nothing, the lies you spewed to make the others happy. It was the mental abuse you threw on yourself to put others on top of the world. It was the silent nights you spent crying and had nothing to grasp onto for sanity or comfort. It is the oil you drowned in that suffocates you even after revival. It was the beeping of the heart monitor when the sparks failed to work, when you flat lined and couldn’t get back up. It was the pain you gave yourself because you couldn’t make the one person happy. It’s the feeling of failing another when you can’t do anything. It’s the suffocation from the water in your lungs that drown you over and over until suddenly, you feel numb. Until the numb spreads and you only feel cold as the salty ocean waves escape from multi-colored eyes. It’s the numb that shows you just where you are. You’ve given up. You have nothing to grab and as you physically grasp for something, a sliver of something to make the hope come back. A splitter to dig deeper into your skin so your hope will stay just that much longer. Then you are left with the drops that collected on your sheets, on your pillowcase, on your legs and sleeves. The little drops that make your head pound the longer you let them escape. The little bastards that make you go numb to anything but the warmth that creeps out from your blankets as you lay down, trying to forget everything.

Forgetting is the worst part, the more you try, the bigger puddle you sleep in. You try so hard to forget the feeling you felt. You promise you won’t feel that way again, but you know in a day, a week, a month, you will feel it again. You know you’ll feel it again unless you do the worst you can think to punish what is in your head. So you grab the liquor, the blades, the gun from your drawers. You grab the rope from the day you went to get your christmas tree last year. You steal away to sob again as you watch yourself be destroyed from the inside out. It’s captivating to watch your own blood trickle down your wrists as you cry. As you mentally punish yourself by a physical act, by knowing the scars will just be the next reminder. You feel the warmth spread and then suddenly, it feels better. It’s no longer an internal battle, but instead it becomes just a nightmare. Then you wake up and realise, that entire process was only the beginning to an impossible ending of darkness.