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All You Wanted
I cannot be what you want.
It is this thought that wakes me, that draws me from a fitful sleep in sweat-dampened sheets, that pulls me down the hall. My eyes are closed still, shut tightly against what will come next. I am safer this way. The real monsters do not invade my dreams.
But it doesn’t matter if my eyes are closed or not. I know this route too well. I know that tonight will be like all the nights before.
My fingers are shaking as they close around the pewter doorknob, twisting it open. I slip inside. It is just a whisper of a movement made by a whisper of a girl. The door closes silently behind me. I am good at this, at being silent. I am good at not being heard.
It is dark outside still, the moon just a sliver of light slicing its way through the velvet sky. I make sure the door is locked, then check again, before dropping to my knees. My eyelids flutter closed as I kneel next to the porcelain bowl, my slender fingers wrapping around its cold sides. I know this feeling all too well, the steps of this pattern I have chosen. I feel the bile rising, acid in my throat, the taste of copper on my tongue. I lean forward, letting all that is wrong with me spill out. It is satisfying, this measure of control, and it is what I crave most.
I am empty now, empty and cold and shaking with silent tears that drip down sunken cheeks. I am drowning in these tears, and I need someone to save me, to pull me out and help me dry. Because I cannot do it myself.
But I manage to stand, to pull myself up on unsteady legs, to lean against the sink and stare at the girl in the mirror. I already know what I will see. I have memorized the contours of her face, I have counted the ribs that protrude from pale pink skin, and I have felt a twisted pleasure as I documented this self-destruction.
The girl there, waiting, does not disappoint. She is who I expected she would be. I know her. I can rely on her; she will not change. She will keep this little secret of mine, this bitter mix of blood and bile and anger and fractured hope, for as long as I ask her to. And it is not something I will give up willingly.
No, I cannot be what you want.
But I will kill myself trying.
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This article has 8 comments.
I am good at not being silent .
Someone wrote most men live lives of quiet despiration.
I feel twisted pleasure at not deing silent .
Im finding the ability to practice something else
I miss the twisted pleasure
I guess there is a reason for our ability too feel so pasionately
I simply want to be real without pain
This is an excellent narrative. The first person point of view makes the voice strong and clear. A moving piece!
P.S. I am not sure how to do the rating. I hit the first star, planning to hit all five. This is a five star writing!
Parting shot...
To the author
Knowing your passion
Its encourageing to engague passion in all art forms
some of us like to think as well
this work leaves me waiting for your next thoughts
keep it up
your helping in ways you probably are too humble to admit