Page 31 of Ricochet
Well, at least it destroyed mine.
I guess that when we bottle our emotions, when we seal them into a box we never want to open, we think we’ll be able to forget about them. Unfortunately, what all of us fail to realize,what I failed to realize, is that you can never forget. You can pretend they’re not there, you can try to run, try to hide, but reality is always the same. Whatever you were trying to run from always catches up with you, and it always feels like a sledgehammer to your chest when everything you were bottling up crashes into you full force.
For a very long time I’ve been blaming other people for the way I am, for all the choices I’ve made, but after a while I realized that it never was their fault. I could’ve fought what they tried to turn me into.
A monster.
A murderer.
They destroyed my mind, shattered my soul, and they built a world inside of me I didn’t want. They opened the door to the darkness, but I invited it in. Emotions can be overwhelming and suffocating. It’s easier to shut them down than to deal with the avalanche in your chest.
So that’s what I did.
Instead of feeling everything and drowning in it, I shut it down and shoved it into that box. And deep down, I sometimes fear what will happen when everything spills out.
It gets tiring pretending that everything is okay, because nothing really ever was.
My wound was still bleeding.
Untreated.
Open.
Raw.
Everyone will tell you that an open wound has to be checked, otherwise it gets infected.
I never treated mine. There was no bandage big enough to stop the bleeding, nor a doctor who could stitch it up. Sometimes I think it’s healed. There are days when my mind isn’t playing games on me, and it isn’t burning me from the inside out. There are days when I wake up and think it’ll be okay. I will be okay. But that shit never lasts.
Just like with every single wound, once you touch it, it starts throbbing, reminding you it is still there.
Maybe it is a memory, or somebody you used to know. It doesn’t really matter because it always hurts the same.
I loved control. I thrived on it. With it, I could pretend to be a functional member of society. People react differently when you display emotions accordingly.
Did somebody tell a joke? Laugh Ophelia, remember to laugh. Move your lips and recall the sounds to go with it.
People can’t hurt you if you’re the one controlling them.
Waking up in an unfamiliar, dark room a couple of minutes ago took away all of the control I thought I had. The pounding in my head started inciting nausea. A croissant I had for breakfast this morning heavy in my stomach. Was it this morning, or was it yesterday? What time of a day was it now?
I pulled myself up, scanning the room, my mind still hazy from the sleep.
There were no windows in any of the walls, and the only light inside the room was a dimmed lamp, perched on the edge of a large mahogany desk, opposite the bed.
Where the fuck was I?
I glanced at the t-shirt, hugging my upper body, and frowned.
This isn’t my shirt.
I could see my black pants and a sweater folded on the sofa chair, but who undressed me, and why?
I pushed the comforter off of me, and slid off the bed, my feet hitting the cold tiles beneath, evoking goosebumps all over my skin. Think, Ophelia, think. What is the last thing you remember?
I inspected my legs, arms and stomach, looking for bruises or cuts, but there were none. I wasn’t hurt. I gripped the bed, pushing my mind to cooperate with me.
The house. The one Theo said Maya was staying at.
