One of the most beloved things were the key tones of a dial pad.
For the most part, life had been a complete blur of events. Many memories had slipped through colours of sunsets and sundowns that the most relative parts became increasingly hard to grasp. As I grew older, so did my heart grow weary from isolation and lack of stimulation. It is hard to state with confidence that I was indeed alive in the beautiful sense of the word. A hollow being masquerading.
As an adolescent my head felt static – a horrible numbness that I never wish to return to. My attitude was apathetic: what would be would be without my consent; destiny. The day I learned to read and understand the abstract concept of words was a day of salvation. With this newfound power I learned the secret portal to a myriad of worlds, wishes and dreams. And that is how I marched on, never truly attaching myself to any one thing except little books and grandiose stories (some imagined, some discovered). They gave me the emotions I lacked in life, reality later to be echoed, reinvented in my dreams, daydreams. Some of the best times I had as a kid were when I was sleeping, dreaming despite the significant amount of nightmares. A whole range of feelings was discovered as I ran my fingers nervously across pages of heroes, powerful men and women who never gave up. I admired them. Nights were spent running with the wolves, dancing among fierce battles parrying invisible blades from a dastardly enemy who sought every chance to slight me. But no matter how many times I closed my eyes and laid out the scenes, the characters, the plots, I’d always realize that it was not to be.
I’m here. In this world where my family is falling apart. Where people antagonize each other because they didn’t know better. That’s the kind of place I live in, the situation I’m in.
And it progressively grew worse and worse.
I entered the eighth grade, a very interesting year. Already in sixth and seventh grade my stepmother’s influence was growing faint… By eighth, though the details are still hazy, she had moved out and onto the economy. And then it was myself, my older brother and my younger brother left with my dad. The haze in my mind grew, the desire to be elsewhere, anywhere but home intensified and school became my salvation each and every weekday. I studied hard, for it soon became a saving grace, the trump card to deny interaction with my father. The dreaded awkwardness.
But I was still lonely. I justified my inability to make meaningful friends by telling myself that deep down, I didn’t deserve them. It became the whole of my existence that happiness wasn’t mine to obtain though dearly in my heart I wished so strongly to achieve it. I thought that if I got close enough, reached out, I could preserve one little piece to tide me over until my inevitable death. Desperation crippled me. Guilt destroyed me. Little by little, what was left of my desire to continue living was chiseled away. I rode on a bus that sent me back to the hole I crawled out of, the abyss my brothers and I endured… I really can’t call it that. It just was, and we just existed as entities in that space. We weren’t people anymore, we weren’t human. I went back to my home, my darkness and died every day trying to survive.
My room was my solace. I could use it to shut out almost of the pain scratching at my door. I ached and projected my feelings and needs of comfort onto stuffed animals whom I cried at the thought of being mine. Experiencing my distress, my suffering, why did they need to be exposed to that? I drowned in an anesthetic developed through witness to the dismantling of my identity and purpose as an individual of a society. Why should they deserve to also be in this environment? But I couldn’t bare for anything to leave… I couldn’t bear to think that they would leave. Because despite all the voices I heard from my environment, it didn’t feel as lonely as realizing that there was nothing there to hold me.
Death was a pleasant past time. I dreamed so fondly of it. It seemed like bliss, like a beautiful escape. But I couldn’t take anyone with me. My dear beloved items, though only possessions, were my family. I didn’t want to leave them behind. Many days I fought the urge to break skin or fall through my window or sink into a watery slumber. But they always pulled me back. My family I had created preserved enough of me to meet one key person: M.