I can hear their laughter.
Not because I'm humorous - no, the exact opposite.
They are mocking me, all of them.

People have forgotten about me. I am like an old, dusty book in the corner of the library, in the shuffle among disliked authors. As the years pass by, a surprising bout of animosity grows towards me.

And more jokes. More punchlines. More under the breath chuckles, and the not so subtle outbursts of hilarity.


No, I haven't forgotten about the silent ones. The ones that dare not part their lips for a giggle, couldn't even fathom the very idea of it. Why is this? Because they are miserable, and depend on me.

It brings me a sick pleasure, I am deeply ashamed to admit, to sit back and watch. Their neediness...their desperate actions give me a sense of superiority. The crying can sometimes drown out the laughter, the heaving sobs...

They need me. They all need me. And yet, I am the biggest joke when all is well.

I can see it now. A dinner party, with society's finest clutching a healthy amount of wine in their crystal goblets, straight white teeth prodding out of painted red lips. Dresses that dip to ankles and some that barely reach the knees. Curled hair, ties and dress shoes. A man may kiss his female companion on the cheek as a greeting. They are all finely dressed, operating, life is good.

I am no such priority to them. So, they shrug me off. They may even go as far as to denounce me: quietly or not. Oh, does the laughter sting, cuts so deep...

At the same time, I can see a young woman. She's breathing heavily, as if oxygen had been taken from her. Mud is splattered all over her hallow body, her favorite pair of jeans tossed carelessly in the wood, navy blue jacket soaking in the moist grass, matching tanktop ripped, exposing purple spots on her body.

And she's crying. Her throat is coated in saliva and mucus, eyes coated in disgust. She is not carefree like the people at the dinner party. How could she? The girl, barely even eighteen, pulls her bare legs to her chest as a frantic car starts in the distance.

"Filthy b***, you deserved it, f***ing whore," The words do not echo in her mind. They are implanted, along with the constant throbbing pain in the spot between her legs.

She wishes for a miracle. She wants me. "Help." Her only request...something I will deprive her of.

Why is this?

The laughter...it's getting louder.

Soon images of unruly children, vulgar teenagers, and rude adults click in my mind.

"The very idea of it! How silly!"
"Don't be ridiculous, honey, there is no such thing."

Soon the whispers of the desperate are a whisper,
"Help."
"Hel."
"He."
"H."
nothing.


Now, I can not only hear their laughter.
I can see it.
I can feel it.

Once I was in control, faith was installed in me.
Now I am nothing but a joke,
hungry for any dependence whatsoever.
It's hard being me.
Because everyone laughs at God.