“Killian – Book 5 of The Erie Waters Pack Tale series”
“I tried to do right by the pack but looking back now, I realize I didn’t do anything in a thought-out way… everything I did was a reaction to something else. I haven’t been in control of my life for an exceedingly long time – honestly, the only time I have felt anything remotely close to ‘normal’ was when I tried to make everything stop. My thoughts were clear then and I knew very well what I was doing – what I wanted to happen.
Not surprisingly, the one time I was in control – I fucked up.”
**trigger warning: thoughts and acts of suicide
KILLIAN, DARKEST DAYS
What thoughts? I don’t have thoughts – I have nightmares and memories instead. So many images, only flashes sometimes but full-length movies of others… all painful. Hurt, anger, frustration – fear… and now loneliness. Too many hours in the day, even more hours in the dark nights. So much darkness in my head, even more inside my soul – the darkness has turned my heart black.
I have no love in me.
Where love once lived only emptiness resides now – that is my future. This is why I’m here – in this place, writing this fucking journal. Too much torment, too much isolation… a future I didn’t want – a future I couldn’t face.
A future I wouldn’t face.
I tried to make it stop, I tried to make all of the hurt end – to be nowhere. I tried so hard and I came so close… but I failed. I screwed that up too, like everything else. This place kept my black heart beating… my agony throbs with every damn pulse.
Each beat of my heart is like a musical accompaniment to the thoughts in my head. I don’t want to be here – not just here in this place but here in this world. Why didn’t they let me go? Why didn’t they let me achieve one goal successfully? Do one thing right?
Why didn’t they let me die?!
Same place, different area but somehow same tile floor. Same colour walls. Same ugly ceiling tiles stained terrible colours in spots. The smells are less here – not as strong, not as pungent.
Before those smells would have really bothered me, been extremely intense. Not anymore, those days are gone. Abandoned, forsaken… rejected.
I only write when I want, I talk to the new doctor the rest of the time. He is a panther shifter and good at smelling lies – I don’t like talking to him. I have other doctors for ‘rec time’ – suffering and torment time more like… hate that more than talking to the new doctor. I do like the pain hurting my body though – less pain for my insides.
But still the nightmares come.
I tried to make the pain end and failed – so now I’m being punished. Surviving isn’t enough, living the same torturous day over and over again isn’t enough… reliving every fuck-up in my past isn’t enough. Every day I try to talk about my feelings and have to make shit up because I have none - you need a soul to feel anything and mine is gone.
Every black heartbeat pushes more poison through my body, every breath of air a slap in the face. I’m not grateful to be here because I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to talk about emotions I am no longer capable of.
I don’t want the other doctors to pull and push my body, to ‘teach’ it how to do everything it used to do.
All the things it used to do before I tried to stop the pain… to end the darkness - they say I won’t get better if I don’t want to get better.
I say they’re finally starting to understand what I’ve been saying all along.
I’m torn between which I despise most – therapy or PT. One makes me an emotional wreck and the other trashes me physically so both are the worst time spent ever. I can now walk to the bathroom by myself – usually, which makes Torture Time worth it. Maybe once my body is fixed my head will follow.
I’m not optimistic.
I have another doctor – a new doctor with new tests and new questions. I don’t like seeing my new doctor, I don’t like the new tests and I fucking hate the new questions. The questions are the whole point of therapy in the first place, the whole point of why I’m here in this place… what started me on the path that led me here. Every minute I’m with the new doctor is a minute I don’t want to be there, but they keep telling me I need to go – it is life or death. Turns out I was wrong; they don’t get it at all.
I. Don’t. Care.
I can talk until the end of time in therapy, but it won’t change anything. I don’t want to be here – not in this place, not on this planet. Everyone who saved me did a great job, but it was not what I wanted and went against everything I worked for that day.
All those days.
Just because they decide I should be here doesn’t mean I deserve to be, yet they push me every single day to keep going. One step in front of another when I don’t want to go any further. One more session or confession when I’m sure there’s nothing left. One more scary test to tell me I’m going to die anyways.
Turns out it is actually day 117 – I didn’t realize how many days I lost before coming to this part of this place. Days I lost after I tried and failed when the doctors here insisted on keeping my black heart beating, days that passed without me knowing the sun had come up and the sun had gone down. Days that had passed with the only people knowing where I am were the doctors who kept insisting I keep breathing. Days that passed where the only people who gave a shit were the doctors in this place… and that was professional, nothing more.
Bet they regret saving my sorry ass now.
Knowing the kind of person I am and the things I’ve done… the people I’ve hurt – the journey that led me to this place. Why my heart is empty and dead, why my family has rightfully turned their back on me and why I’m half the person I once was.
Family… my family. Christ, I miss them – so much. My therapy doctor has helped me to realize where everything went wrong for me, or rather, where I started to let myself go wrong. I fucked up in ten million different ways and there is no dressing that up or hiding from it, at least not anymore. The doctors in this place won’t let me since that is the whole reason I’m here in the first place.
Or rather, Dad.
Losing Dad was… is… it changed things - it changed everything. His death was sudden, unfair and too soon – too fucking soon! There is no good in the world when men like my Dad die young and are taken from their families and there are so many pieces of human garbage out there wasting air and taking up space! It’s bullshit!
I should know, I’m one of the pieces of human garbage.
My Dad… my Dad was the best. The best father any of us could ever ask for and the best husband to my Mom she could ever want… he was kind, generous, loving and just… just awesome. He loved us pups so much but his love for our Mom was almost… otherworldly. With every cell in his body Mom was his everything and he let her know every minute of every day they were together – watching Mom’s devastation after he died… after he was fucking stolen from us…
No… no no no no no… this is exactly why I didn’t want to be here anymore. This pain is why – it is overpowering and like the love for my Mom that once filled my Dad’s cells, there is only despair and anguish in mine.
Let me go.