Page 71 of Apathy
Even after, I didn’t even know how many days, my throat was still sore from screaming that night. I wanted to tell them that I was okay. I was alive, and that’s all that mattered.
But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?
Just another lie on a long list I made over the past two years. Just another omission of truth because I didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes. Self-destruction was a fucked-up thing.
You wanted to get better, you knew that you needed to get better if you wanted to live, but at the same time you couldn’t get yourself up from the bed. You couldn’t stop yourself from taking just another pill, just another drag of the cigarette, just another sip of alcohol, just to make yourself feel better.
We were all either chasing the lack of feeling, or we wanted to feel something, anything. Some days, I wanted to drown myself with my sorrow and to forget the nightmares haunting me. Other days, I wanted to feel something, just to remember that I was still alive.
I was still here.
On other days, those dark, dark, dark days, I had to remind myself how to breathe, how to smile, how to act as if I was there. How to behave, because more and more I felt like I was just watching a movie while my life passed right in front of my eyes.
And everything I did, every single word I spoke, it was my muscle memory keeping me afloat.
Get up in the morning.
Stare at the wall until I remembered that I had to move.
Brush my teeth, take a shower, put on my clothes… One, two, three, four breaths before I go outside of my room, especially if Dylan was home. Remember how to smile. Remember how to respond to questions.
Remember not to doze off.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
But I couldn’t remember anymore. Since they brought me to the hospital, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember who I wanted to be. I couldn’t remember my plans, my dreams, or how to act… I couldn’t remember any of it.
I could only remember the golden mask, empty sockets where the eyes were supposed to be, and his tilted head as he started carving on my arm. For a moment there, I thought he would want to make it seem like I killed myself—not that it would come as a surprise to most people—but he didn’t.
I lifted my arm, staring at the white bandages hiding whatever it was he left beneath, hiding the wounds for now. I wished I was strong enough to tear them off, to see what was so important to knock my life upside down. I wanted to see what he did to me.
I was familiar with scars. I carried them hidden in the dark parts of my soul, masking them from the rest of the world. Those were the scars that never truly healed, but at least no one could see them.
This one… This one was going to be visible to every single person. This one was going to be one I would never be able to hide, and I would still have to carry it.
I could already hear the whispers in school and on the street.
A survivor.
Such a brave girl.
Poor thing.
But I wasn’t a survivor. I wasn’t brave. I was a liar.
I lied to myself, to my friends, to my family. I lied every single day, because facing the truth was much harder than any of us knew. Facing the truth meant that I would truly have to think about things cutting me every single day, and I wasn’t ready for that.
“Sky?” Dylan’s voice echoed around the room, muffled by the buzzing sound of the air conditioner. I really wanted to turn around, to cry, to let him hold me, soothe me, but I couldn’t. His deep sigh was the only indication of how frustrated he was, but instead of telling me how my indifference to everything was killing him, he just continued talking. “Lauren brought some clothes for you. They’re releasing you today.”
Releasing me. To go home. To go back to the place where I was hurt, where I faced my worst nightmare.
“Do you want me to help you get dressed?” he asked, but we both knew the answer to that question. Yesterday, he tried holding my hand, but I tore it out of his grasp faster than he could blink, teetering on the edge of a panic attack, because even thinking about anybody’s hands on my body these days sent fear rolling over my skin.
“Right.” He exhaled as I turned around, taking in the dark circles around his eyes and the disheveled blond hair.
