The Walls

Wrote this when I was 12, but went back and edited it today.

I haven't recovered from her, though I'll never admit it aloud. I don't intend to either, should it require any particular effort on my behalf. I can't go to the doctors. They'll ask questions, and questions are what get people killed. 

When I'm like this, I'm unpredictable. Doctors don't like that. Doctors don't like me.

I stumble up from upon the bed, watching it rise slowly. Or quickly...? Yes. The bed rises quickly but I watch slowly.

Blood rushes to my head followed and preceded by a number of both questions and facts. But nothing is certain. The facts are questions too. An endless cycle of insufferable questions, the unbearable stream of conscience run unanswered and uncensored. A single certainty arises, though. I am in desperate and utter need of help. I need fixing and so do the people in my head, who I suppose are only crazy by association. Someone needs to tell me how much this is supposed to hurt, for I'm close to certain it's not this much. 

Is this how it's supposed to feel? Heartbreak- that is.

I lost something, someone I never had, yet it hurts just as bad. Worse- even.

Shreds. It's all I am. I'm a man torn to shreds, with the sole ability of tearing others to a similar morbid state. Insides, my own, they twist and burn and writhe, only made worse by the fact that I deserve it.

She told me I deserve it, and she was an angel so she couldn't have lied.

"SHUT UP!" I scream, the wall across from me bearing the brunt. The words need to stop, those in my head that is. I need to hear silence again, bathe in it and let it care for me as my mother claimed she couldn't. 

A bloodcurdling scream echoes through the damp motel room. A second passes, before I realise it's my own. My own blood curdling scream. I scare myself sometimes. Unsettled, I stand up again, not having realised I'd sat. 

Steady. I steady myself, before walking to the small desk serving as my makeshift alcohol crate. I grab the first bottle and watch the empty ones clatter and smash to the ground. 

I down the bottle, only pausing momentarily to grasp at short unmeasured gasps of air. It burns my throat but I savour it. I deserve it. I deserve a lot worse, she told me that. 

Once emptied, I hurl it at that wall. Shatter. It feels good. I pick up another, and do it again- not caring for emptying its contents first. Another, another till I'm all out. 

My back hits the wall as I slide down slowly. Or is it fast? No, its slow this time. My knees cling to my chest and I cling to my knees, choking back sobs. 

I throw my head back, gasping as the wall breaks through skin. Not caring if it hurts, willing it to do so. 

I bite my tongue till it bleeds, then watch my white shirt turn pink as my mouth hangs open in untamed agony.

The walls. The walls. They lean in, creep in, whatever. I can't tell. But they're close. Closer every time I blink. They want to hurt me like everyone else. I can practically feel my bones crushing in anticipation. Blood blankets the floor, joints in grains like flour, and organs spilling out onto the muddied "welcome home" mat. I'm dying, I'm-

NO! I leap from my corner and shake my head like an animal. Animalistic, that's what I am. I whip back around to face the wall again. If I don't blink, they can't crush me, can't get to me. 

I know what's coming. I grab the nearest pillow and shove it in my mouth, rough against my face. I'm nearing destitute, desperate not to be kicked out yet another motel. I've no money left, no family and worst of all- no June.

NO DON'T SAY HER NAME! I don't deserve such sweetness on my tongue. 

The voice is right. Discarding the pillow, I bang my head as hard as I can against the rustic bedside table. Yell, scream, whisper. It's all the same as it merges into a carnivorous fury. A burning sensation, but more than a sensation. I am burning alive, from the inside out.

It hurts, I do it again. I wish she could see me now. See me for the selfless, lover I am. I think she would like this, like my suffering. She never loved me. She told me so herself. She hated me, she told me as she died. I don't know her, I can't. This isn't just the alcohol speaking.

I'm not as think as you drunk I am.

Breath leaves my body, the idea of it following leaving only the craving. It's no longer my own, it belongs to the dank motel walls that engulf me. They rob me, and beat me and threaten mw with an array of glinting torture devices- all without moving from 90 degrees. 

Again, I remind myself it's just a wall.

Lying down, I squeeze my eyes shut. Tight.

So tight, I think they might be bleeding.