Save Me From You...

Blaring sounds of an alarm is not my idea of waking up to greet the morning. What I'd rather do is flip it off and roll over. I found that with each new morning, I just can't get up as easily. Maybe it's work. Then again, maybe it's the people at work. In general. EVERYwhere, that make my life hell. As I spend my precious 9 snooze minutes staring at the ceiling, I try to make excuses for not coming into work. I help set the forests on fire and I'm running away with my new lover Charlotte...yes, I do believe I have finally hit the rock bottom of desperation. Besides, I would never set the forest on fire. Unless it inhabited most of the people I despise. Then start to worry. I pull on some wrinkled clothes from the floor and run my fingers through my long black hair. Who cares how I appear to others anymore, I thought to myself. It doesn't matter how normal I try to be around others. I am never good enough and never will be. I inspected my hands further and became slightly shocked because they were stained blue and my nails tinted green! It hit me. I remembered. Last night. I lost it again. Put huge blue streaks all over my hair. If that wasn't enough, I also dyed the bottom half of my hair green! My wrists adorned large cuts that still burned from the memory of the night before. I bolted across the room and consulted the mirror. It was true. I bit my lip, thinking how I was going to explain this to work or better yet, how I was going to deal with other people's judgements about it. A slow smile came to my face for a fleeting moment, as if I forgot all my worries. A year ago this wouldn't have fazed me one bit. What is wrong with me? Why does this bother me? My pulse was quickening as I turned these questions over in my head. I used to love a thrill. Whether it was dying my hair or playing with pool noodles as swords at the store, I never cared. NEVER. I slumped down in the chair beside the mirror and put my head down on the smooth, cold glass of the table in front of me. 1

I can't take this! I stepped outside into the street and took a look back. My father's house. Notice how I didn't say it was our house. I say that because my father stopped caring about me the day he found out I stopped going to church. I knew I should have said something sooner, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell him how I felt. Anger rose up in me and I began to overflow. My father claimed I wasn't his child anymore. That I was tainted. He wanted to know what he did wrong. Tears descended down my cheeks, stinging and hot. I never told him that I was sorry for disappointing him, but I never truly felt like I had...until now. People like my father claimed to be so accepting and loving. I started walking past my father's house, then turned back around. Just as the Christians envision hell with burning flames, that's how his house appeared back at me. Little curling flames swaying back and forth. I wanted to run and never turn back, but what's the point? I'm tired of running from my fears. I'm tired of burying my face in my pillow just to wake another day to such a cold world. I walked back towards my house on the sidewalk and passed a couple with an Irish wolfhound. I barely looked up, just knowing the judgement was already passed as I kept my eyes locked to the ground. Once they were further down the sidewalk, I turned my head and realized they were stopped. Why did they stop? What's going on? Their eyes said it all. They thought I was homeless. Their eyes looked at me as though they felt sorry for me, and yet this only made me enraged. They thought I was some escaped mental patient. They whispered words into each other's ears, and the tears returned, mocking me. Whatever they thought, it was unfair. Before they could say anything, I ran all the way to the sliding glass door at the back of my father's house. 2

I slid inside, closing off my eyes to the flames and went downstairs to catch my breath. Then I saw it. My hands formed into fists, shaking violently. My eyes wouldn't believe what was in front of me, and I had to  scan the bed once more. Laying on it was a bible with a note from my father. HOW could he!? The distant sound of a ringing phone broke my thoughts for a moment. Fuck, that would be work. With a blank expression, I picked up the phone. It was work. They wanted to know where I was. And I told them exactly what I felt. "I won't be in today, and tomorrow's not looking good either. In fact, I just won't -be- ever again," I told them with increasing sadness. My hand took the receiver and lightly placed it back on the phone cradle. I just stood there, emptiness replacing all the anger, pain, and frustration. Visions flooded my mind, but I did not cry. I carefully picked up the bible in one hand and walked up the stairs. I didn't even have to guess, as I knew what I was looking for and where it would be. I slid the skeleton key into the cabinet drawer that held my father's "special wine", slowly pulling it open. Amidst a few bottles of wine, there was an old cigar box. I picked it up and walked past the dining room and upstairs once more. I opened the first door at my right and sat on the bed, realizing how surreal this felt. This was my father's room. I could feel his words even now as I looked around, and they felt like daggers digging into my soul. Why was I here anymore? Why didn't I have the strength to leave? My fears had prevented me. I had nowhere to go. I opened the cigar box lid and produced the gun inside. I didn't even bother to read his note. I knew what it would say. I laid the gun down and flipped to a random page in the bible. I placed his note inside and slammed the book closed. I lifted the gun to my head, closing my eyes and trying to forget. Forget everything, but I did allow myself to remember my mother. I missed her, yet I had never met her. She had died while having me. I always felt like my father blamed me for taking her away. I heard footsteps approaching, was I already dead? Was it my mother? I was still holding the gun with a tight grip. Can't back down. I aimed the gun at the door and it swung open. I don't care anymore. I fired. I saw the fear in his face, and for once felt satisfied that he now felt like I had felt all these pathetic years. Then I turned the gun on myself, and as if in slow motion, I pulled the trigger. Everything felt as though it were a swirling whirlpool fueled by emotion, and I was going down the drain with it. No more judgement. No more pain. I was finally able to float away, breaking the chains that had once held me down.3