The Last Night

Where were you last night Kathy?

What were you doing?

What’s that on your arm?

         “Why does it fucking matter!?”

         I can’t do take this anymore. Their starting to suspect something’s wrong, that maybe I’m not the person they thought I was. Somewhere deep inside they already know, they’ve known for a quite a while actually, they just never wanted to admit it, they were more than fine with pretending that everything was okay. They just don’t want to face the fact that their precious little girl might not be the little angle they thought I was. Well too fucking bad.

         I rush into my room and lock the door behind me. The walls are painted the color of a sunset sky, shades of orange and pink and blue with a hint of blackness swallowing up the rest. The walls are covered with posters of my favorite bands, Skillet, Three Days Grace, an old N’Sync poster from years past, Timberlake and the other guys dangling from strings like puppets. Stuffed animals I’ve collected over the years rest on my bed and on top of a small bookshelf in the corner next to the window. One of my stuffed bears, a toy I’ve had since I was five years old, stares at me from her place on top of my bed, her droopy eyes glaring at me with disapproval; she hates me.

         “Well join the fucking club!” I growl at her.

         I yank her by the head and hurl her across the room, screaming at the top of my lungs.

         I can’t do this anymore.

         I continue to scream until my chest is empty. I drop to my knees and try to sob, try to release my pain, but all that comes out are a series of short gasps. I’ve already cried all my tears. I have nothing left to cry. I’m empty, alone, deserted, unwanted.

         Don’t forget worthless.

         Oh right, how could I forget worthless? My bad.

         My bear looks at me again, but this time sympathy marks her faded and wrinkled features. Her droopy eyes seem to choke back tears. 

         She’s crying for me.

         No, that couldn’t be right, she hated me, of course she did; everyone did.

         “Stop it,” I try to say, but the words get caught in my throat, “stop looking at me! Just leave me the hell alone!”

         I look harder and stare into its eyes. For a moment they seemed to squint in anger.          You see? She doesn’t love you either. You fucking whore, not even your stuffed bear loves you, you sick fuck.                    

         I reach into my pocket and take out a small pocket knife, the kind my little brother uses when he goes camping with his Boy Scout troop.

         I remember how he whined when he lost this knife. For three straight weeks he searched all over the place for it, but he never suspected his beloved big sister had taken it.

         Why would Kathy ever want a knife?

         “Yeah, why the fuck would I ever want a knife?” I cry out, bitterness and resentment clinging to my words.

         I’d only taken it for self defense, to keep me safe when I walked home from work late at nigh; or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. For weeks I stared at that knife, too afraid to actually use it on myself. But once I did, for a brief moment, it actually felt good. As my brain reacted to the steel pressed against my arm, it couldn’t dwell in suicidal depression. As long as I was preoccupied, I didn’t have time to consider killing myself. I was saving my life.

         But it didn’t work anymore. Even now, as I slice my brother’s blade across my pale, white, paper thin skin, my mind stays focus on the dark black void inside of me. I try to create more pain by digging deeper still, but that only makes me more aware of what I am doing, and of how low I’ve fallen.

           There’s nothing left for you Kath, just make it stop… You can end your pain.