The Untitleds

And I just stand there. My hand twitched into a fist for a moment, but other than that, I just stand there. After her first question, I felt cold; the kind of cold that cannot be felt from ice or element. Her words washed over me and froze my soul. Only for a moment did I falter before I put on the mask that I had grown so accustomed to wearing. Smiling I said, 1

“Sure, we’ll be friends,” knowing perfectly well that it could never be the same. For me at least. 2

One last hug and she walked away, but not before asking,3

“Are you sure you’re ok?”4

“Yea, I’m fine.” I assured her with a smile that felt foreign to me now. It didn’t belong with me anymore.5

So she walked away, and I looked after her, wondering what was going through her head at that moment. Sorrow? Relief? I had no way of knowing. She seemed to be fine with what just happened. If that is true, then I wish to die where I am. As she started to turn back my way, I thrust my hands in my pockets and turn away to keep her from seeing my tears well up. I struggle to keep from looking at the ground; to admit my grief. I walk away.6

I feign sleep in class, my head in my arms. I hate it when people ask questions. They say “oh I’m sorry” or “you’ll find someone else.” Why should they be sorry? What if I don’t want someone else? They pretend to be sympathetic and maybe they are, but do they truly care? It doesn’t affect their day-to-day lives so within the next hour they’ve already forgotten. My tears are soaked by my sweater sleeves as I blast my iPod’s music, blocking out the world and their prying eyes. 7

And this day seemed so promising.8

I got home. The rest of the day was nothing more than a blur through the frost that covered my eyes. Silently I road home. Silently I trudged into the house. Silently I set down my book-bag, thinking how great it would be if I could drop my problems the same way. Dropping myself on the bed, I soon fell asleep to dream of the fun times of the past. 9

Waking up, I felt no better than I did before. I felt dirty, unclean; unworthy to be above the earth... I look around my room and realize I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. 10

"I have to get outta here."11

I open my door and realize that I have nowhere to go. What should I do? Just leave and walk until I slowly freeze to death? Sounds tempting. But even the snow and sleet outside, although reflective of my inner turmoil, was white hot compared to the freeze of my soul. Walking back to my room I snatch a towel and walk down to my shower. Not even bothering to wash, although I felt so grimy and greasy(maybe that was all in my mind), I merely allowed the water to wash over my head, shoulders, chest, and back. Thawing the subzero freeze, I think of what to do next. 12

Later, sitting on my bed, I hold a knife in my hand. Nothing special; six inch blade, carved, wooden handle, and a mirror finish. The blade is right over my heart, ready to split my soft skin. I press the edge of the metal to my flesh. 13

Oh sweet pain! The blade is dull. I drag the knife across my skin, but I feel nothing. Replacing the knife over where my broken heart lay, press down harder. I felt it this time. It was a refreshingly cool feeling; like metal that is cold to the skin on a summer day. I wondered why it felt so cold. I almost couldn’t stand it touching my flesh. Feeling my chest, I started at how hot it was, easily contrasting the nonexistent warmth inside of me, which were glacial. I scold myself for such lack of conviction. I still had not drawn blood; I still was not satisfied. Placing the blade on my chest a third time, I press down hard enough that I felt my ribs underneath, hard enough that that alone was nearly enough to bleed me. Gritting my teeth, I ran the knife along the location of my already bleeding heart.14

I sigh.15

Tears of relief run down my face as I bleed freely from my chest. Oh sweet pain! So much more succulent and real than what I had been drowning in before. My emotional pain, though familiar, was a dark winged creature, threatening to devour me and trap me in my own mind. This physical pain anchored me to the real world, the only thing keeping me from slipping into unconscious tragedy.16

The icy blood cooled my burning flesh. I imagine if my skin were any more feverish, steam would have curled off of it.17

I'm glad I did not cut my arms or wrists. Not because I was afraid, but more because I don't own any long sleeved shirts. I hate questions. People prying into a life because they're bored with their own; so they ask, I'd tell, and then they would tell everyone they know. Though I had told nobody, save for one, it seemed as though everybody knew. Walking the hallways, people penetrated my outer shell, tearing at me. They knew! I panic. It becomes hard to breath, and I have to escape. I look them in the eyes, but they stare at my chest, drawn to my never-healing wound as if they could smell the dried blood.18

No! This isn't possible. It's all in my mind. I force myself to slow my erratic breath. Adapting to my new psychosis, I learn to cope with it day-to-day. I speed my walking to get past all the eyes, gleaming hungrily at me.19

I confide in my online friends(a few of them). They don't ever see me so I can avoid their eyes; their knowing eyes. I don't care how they judge me. Who will they tell? Nobody I know. But... I regret it all the same. Even in type the words "you'll find someone better" still cuts deep; maybe deeper than the one I bore on my chest. How can they say such blind statements? So beautiful; she is so beautiful. So kind, quick to laugh, quick to smile. Such a gorgeous smile. No. There is no one after her. I've seen beautiful girls before but none with such a pure light within them. seeing that light now, I cringe. The light hurts, shedding truth and realization on me and my failures. In the light is a mirror and in that mirror I see myself staring back. Yet it is not me; before my very eyes, my reflection twists in on itself and perverts any human features it may have once possessed. I look at it and realization hits me. It is... my... It's my soul.20

"What AM I?"21

I fall into darkness, suffocating. I claw and grab at the tangible evil around me, but the darkness slips through my fingers like silk. I scream.22

I wake up in a cold sweat. Squinting to see the faint glow of my watch's hands, I ascertain a rough estimate of the time. About 2:30. It was nothing new, I've been suffering of insomnia for months now, ever since then... Sometimes I remember the nightmares. Sometimes I don't. I'll remember this one until the day I die.23

Getting a glass of orange juice from my refrigerator, wishing I had something more potent(in other words, alcohol), I sit at my laptop and write some poetry. The only thing that keeps me from cutting myself is to spill my emotions into poetry, rather than spill my blood.24

And so I allow my ragged and torn life to continue... 25

I get used to my new way of life.26

Lying, charading, facading. All become a daily routine. I shrug questions and change subjects. It works on all but maybe one or two. Maybe one. My only true friend who could possibly understand how I feel lives thousands of miles away. I could tell him, but what good would come of it? He'd know and that's all. I wasn't there anymore, when if I was down he'd comfort me by offering to blow stuff up. Nathan and I would, too. (Sorry about your water main, Stephen!) Thinking about it as I write, I smile despite how I feel.27

Only one person is there for me now, yet I cannot bear to tell her the truth sometimes. Seeing her cry is a worse pain than any blade or bullet could inflict. I've been told that it is easy to lay down and die, to just give up. Ever tried it? How can it be easy, realizing your end is near, knowing that you will never see those important to you, feeling the grief of your unborn children who will no longer exist, because their would-be father is such a loser. No! It isn't easy and that is why I am still here. Pathetic human emotions constrain me to this sad, grey plane. Compassion, love, weakness. Weakness is an emotion. I feel weak. These phenomena for the human psyche prevent me from the release I seek. So suicide means hell, at least the heat will warm my soul.28

Recently I've given trust to another, but she, too, is far away. She cares, but I put her through more than I think I should have. She watched, sort of. She saw the trust, saw that I don't bleed. Over and over I tried, pushing harder every time. A couple of drops. Only a few. I turn off the web-cam so she doesn't see the anguish and grief on my face. I can't even feel pain. I've become completely numb. I need to talk to my friend about it so I call her, but I couldn't bring myself to admit I broke her promise. I tell her I'll call her back. I don't.29

Later, my phone rings. Assuming it's Rachael or Crystal, I just say "what?" But it's far worse.30

"Hi, Nick." Says my mother.31

I don't reply.32

"I love you." she says.33

I feel nothing.34

"Are you going to come get me?" she asked pleadingly.35

"No."36

"Why not?"37

"Because I don't care." I was chilled by how true this was.38

"Why don't you, honey?"39

"I don't care anymore. I don't care about you. About my sister, about my grades, or about my life."40

"What happened?"41

"Everything. Everything happened. I'm tired of the fighting. I just don't care anymore. I'm going to go to sleep, and hopefully I'll never wake up."42

She starts to tell me how a religion I'm supposedly a part of(yet don't believe in) is wrong. I don't care. It can be wrong. It can be right. But I don't care.43

No pain. No anger. No sorrow. Just emptiness and a fake smile. I live day to day because I am too cowardly to take my own life. I have other ways; always tempting Death however I see fit. Picking fights I'll lose, running red lights, whatever. Nothing. I am trapped. Maybe I am in Hell now, and just don't realize it. Oh, well.44

I sit here writing these sentences and wish they were not true. A nondescript "X" covers where my heart should be, and though it still pumps beneath my chest, it is without rigor or conviction. It is the beat of a heart that half-heartedly attempts at freedom, although it knows the rib cage it is sealed behind has won long ago. But habit has kept it going. 45

It doesn't know what else to do. 46