Bitter Salvation

Bitter Salvation

         I pass through the living doors that invite the wounded in both body and mind, I come to see that its kindness will pass no judgment upon you, but be warned that your fellow patrons will. The woman that birthed me holds my arm and pulls me with her. Shame, blame, worry and pain seep from her pores and spill onto my heart. Each drop weighing it down with the same sense of unspeakable self-loathing and disregard for being that brought me here in the first place.
         We greet a woman behind the desk, blonde hair that swirled together like a mass of hanging vines. Two emeralds pressed into her lightly tanned flesh point towards my shaking frame. I could never forget her face. The face of my Gate Keeper.
         The woman digging into my arm whispers back and forth with the Gate Keeper. Shameful hushed tone. Too lost in my thoughts, the only words I catch are "high priority patient". My heart sinks. All of these people here with me, broken bones, torn flesh, agonizing maladies; these people have to wait even longer to receive care because MY feelings hurt. All because I tried to end something that they are trying to preserve by coming here.
         Suddenly words stab into my ears, "Ms. Johnson I need you to sign here, it states that you chose to be hospitalized." The Gate Keeper says in a sweet voice. As I grab the key to my own prison cell, a voice rings out in my empty skull. Pfft. You chose this? Bullshit. You're scared shitless. You don't want to be here. Run. The highway is right there. Run. Run into the cars. The familiar voice of depression cackled for the thousandth time, I have given it a name: Ms. Misery. I quickly scratched some semblance of my name into the creed as I held back a dry heave.
         Dried and swollen, my tiny tear ducts had gushed an amount of bitter emotion that I could not have thought possible. The gnashing maw of my replacement "father" slurped up the last of them; clearly a way for him to temporarily repair his broken masculinity. But now, nineteen years of self-loathing, despair and anguish, displayed itself shamefully on my broken mask. It hurt all of my being, my existence, my pride; every part of me ached with the shameful realization of the destruction I allowed to take place on my body and mind. How could it have gone on this long? How could you have kept doing this to yourself. No normal person starves themselves and takes pride in it. No normal person slices through their flesh and laps at the blood as if it were their only reason for living. No normal human knows the bitter taste of gunpowder. No normal human envies the dead. Even now you wallow in that slime your depression regurgitates. These thoughts of clarity continued to run even after my tears could not.
         Talons once again grab me and pull me to a large, white, steel door. At this point my clarity began to fade and the hectic and yet peaceful surroundings become a hellish landscape of terror and despair. As my melancholy grew, the souls meant to help me morphed into monstrosities that took pleasure in my pain. They were lions in a pride, just waiting for a juicy victim.
         Suddenly the white gate opens and I am dragged into their den. The beasts strip my clothes off and wrap me with thin paper. Now my body was as vulnerable and open as my heart. This shame was soon followed by a chagrined internal response from Ms. Misery, "You can't leave now. They fucking locked you in. You stupid bitch. Now your ugly ass is naked and fucking wrapped like a present. Now what are we going to do!?" The mental vexations my depression spewed over my morass situation were halted by one of the beast's low growls. "Have you ever done something like this before?" it groaned softly. The lionesses around me lick their chops as I open my mouth. "Y...yes", I mumble, staring at the black and white checkered floor. "What did you do?" the voice is quick to respond and almost eager to know. They are hungry for my life's story. I could practically hear them echo to the other pride members the tales of the revulsion I had to my own flesh and inner workings.
         I inhale deeply, the smell of sterile gauze, cast plaster, and alcohol invading every sensory nerve with a dull yet stinging sensation. Fortunately I was able to shove my feelings in that dark corner of my mind that holds the corpses of past emotions. The very ones that Ms. Misery drags out to show me, they are still as fresh as the day I had put them there.
         In a frigid manner I began to list off my plans, "While I was cutting once, I held the blade very hard against my throat. Another time I put a .45 Colt revolver against my head." As I listed off each one, the talons that held my arm softened into slender fingers and let go. The harsh creature beside me slowly turned into a figure I could recognize, my mother. Her newly formed hand rested against her mouth as red swallowed the creamy whites of her eyes. My mother stood there, crying for me, crying for herself, crying against life. But not a single emotion of regret for my actions resided in me. An almost cruel pride stirred in me that made me question all of my humanity. How dare her. How dare she decide to show her true form on this matter now. How dare she shed tears as if it hurt her. Just a moment ago she told me what a burden it was that I was like this. As if I chose it. Lack of understanding should not hinder the expression of love. These painful yet true words ran through my blood and tore my heart apart.
         The lioness' eyes are replaced with voids by the time I explain plan X to it. Her heart was now no more than a stone encased valve that withstood every belting word. A true veteran of this ever growing war.
         Two kings paw my shoulders and push me towards my holding cell, my mother trudging behind us. I lay upon a cardboard and foam slab, a goblin grabs my arm and rapes my vein with a hollow dagger. He begins collecting my iron flavored life into a vial; I remain entranced and sickened by the tidal waves it created as it flowed.
         After stealing the red iron, they leave the dagger in my vein. I stare inquisitively at them all, expecting them to take it from me, but they do not. Instead, they dance around the reason for doing so. But Ms. Misery found a chance to gorge herself, "You left it in case I went batshit crazy, right? In case I suddenly decided that I no longer wanted to be here. Easy access, right?" Her brutally honest words slithered from my between my lips.
         They all look down and make it clear what they thought of my mental state. No reassuring words. No words of encouragement. No "you're not crazy." No "You'll be alright." No "I doubt you will". And yet earlier I vaguely heard words of simple praise for my calm and quiet disposition in the circumstance. What kind of half assed bullshit is this?! If you think she's fucking crazy then tell her! TELL HER WHAT A DISGUSTING AND INSANE MONSTER SHE IS! The demon's words quaked through the fat that my skull coveted.
         But I am no lamb. I have experienced this every day. Clarity stirred within me again. I know why they remained silent. You're a young woman with potential in this world. You're a young woman whose sickness went undetected and ignored for so long that the only cure you saw for this pain was dying. Her wisdom was great and she spoke with strength and courage. Always tearing apart Ms. Misery's words. But I hate her just as much as Ms. Misery. She only comes after the damage has been done. After I've been torn apart. Cruel bitch.
         A man enters the room, breaking the mental conflict that entangled me. Brown hair that hung from his scalp like wilted blades of grass. Thick glasses with gray rims and blue eyes behind them. He spoke with a gentle tone that I have never heard come from any man other than my father. "Can I please speak to Amanda alone?"
         My mother reluctantly leaves my side as the man sits beside me. "I'd ask you how you're doing today but I can see that it's not good." He awkwardly chuckles. I smile in a small way that acknowledges the joke. "I'm here to see if you need to be hospitalized or not, ok?" he murmurs in a manner that clearly stated he was afraid of my possible reaction. I just nod and attempt another smile.
         He sits up straight and looks at me with a stern yet concerned stare. "What made you want to do it...? Did you plan on dying?" his voice carried an air about it that felt like a gentle interrogation. "No...I just...thought it would...make me feel better..." With that answer, my body miraculously found the fluids to begin to pour tears again. His voice softened a bit more, "do you want to die?" I looked at him. My eyes feel heavy and the images before me felt surreal. "I...I don't...But what choice do I have? It's been made clear to me that I am a burden...." I whimpered like an injured dog. "How so?" His voice became somewhat angry, but the anger was not towards me. "Before coming here...I was told that I was a lazy, manipulative, burdensome bitch. My stepfather has made this very clear to me." I grit my teeth as I say every word.
         The man stands up and touches my shoulder. An unfamiliar feeling hits my bleeding keloid. He looks down at me and smiles in a bitter way. "Okay...we have to hospitalize you sweetie...It'll be okay...You'll get better now...you'll get better...You'll be happy again..." It was understanding.