The Mistake

A Story by Yangy

Inner monologue of someone talking to themselves about who they truly are

Mistakes are made, you know you’ve done something stupid. Something you regret. People start to avoid you, then you fix it, and then it returns, over and over, again and again. You try to move on but the bullshit keeps coming back. You want to fix things and make it all okay but the tear-filled rage inside you wants to let out the dark side. The side that knows no boundaries twists and claws inside you, tearing through your flesh to release itself, you struggle to hold it back but you can’t. You exhaust yourself trying to fix things, to be nice but you know there’s a shadow inside you absorbing all light, just waiting for you to fix things. Then when you do, you’re in its reach. It clasps on to you and throws you and everyone back to the ground. You’re mean, you are Goddamn mean. The ice off your breath petrifies everyone, your hands go blue with coldness, and your heart is black. It has been dead for a long time, and you’ve been trying to make it beat. Just one beat. But you can’t, no matter how much you shock it, how much you try to pull it back to life, it is dead. You are dead. You can’t fix yourself, you can’t pull yourself from the train and carry on with your life because it is gone. You must accept that and exist on knowing that you’re a tragedy. That you will always be that tragedy. People will see you that way " Broken, scarred, beaten. That’s who you are. Cruel and lifeless. A dead monster. A spiteful ghost in everyone’s lives. A memory, a horrible, fading memory. How loving turned to loathing. A lesson for people to not trust you. Because the mistake that was made, it was trusting you. You are a mistake.