Ricochet

Ricochet

Ricochet off the wall; your ambiguous tactics of deceit are quite clear to me; clear, in fact, as the Caribbean water which is your thoughts and motives.  I see through it as a piece of glass, and I will proceed to shatter it with the hardest blow I have ever mustered.

You think that you are so clever.  In reality, however, you are a disgusting dolt.  A charlatan, simply.

 

Is your pleasure evanescent, pleasurable in the moment but taunting you later?

      Have you no conscience?

      For, you nasties, it cannot be both.

 

My exasperation gets the better of me and I fall to the floor in a slump.  I am a sack of potatoes.  Is a sack of potatoes better than an arrogant, tenacious being such as you?

My resignation shows my weakness and I plummet into yet another abyss, while you show no lamentation.  I cringe at the sight that I see you every day.

 Every single day.

 Every single one of you.

 

      When the bad things happened I would replace tears of saline with tears of blood.  They would drip down, down, down.  They would drip to the floor.  They would stream.  I would pop any blue tunnels I saw, and then I would laugh.  I would laugh, my friend, I would laugh.  I thought it funny.  It was my entertainment.

      It has been four years. Four long, tormenting, hard, harsh, appalling, revolting, unpleasant years.  There are not enough adjectives to describe it, and there is no word that is fit to use in the explanation and depiction of  it.  Four years and still, I cannot stop. It is a drug, my drug, my liquid drug that expels from me rather than popping a pill, or shooting up, or snorting, or smoking.  I don’t do many other drugs, at least not often.  I don’t smoke marijuana often.  I don’t take hardcore drugs like Ecstasy, or heroin, or cocaine, or acid, or angel dust.  None of that now, not for me.  I have my own drug, and my body makes it on its own.  No wad of cash necessary.  Yes, I admit, I take pills occasionally, but they are harmless for the most part.  An Adderall here or there, an occasional Klonopin, Ativan, or Xanax.  But I don’t need them.  I only need my drug that I produce, like a plant produces its food through photosynthesis.  I produce my own drug.

      I wrote things in it.  I wrote things on the walls with my own blood, I was so angry, I wanted to defy every single thing in the world, every law, every rule, I wanted to backfire, I wanted to rebel against the world.  It was disgusting.  It was revolting, appalling, inexcusable, an unspeakable act.  Sickening.  To write in your own fluid; it was as disgusting as the retarded kid who smeared his own s**t all over his walls.  Who pissed his pants every day.  It was as disgusting as the mysterious gray material that one girl left in the shower floor after she took baths.  Why anyone would take baths in there is a mystery to me, and I do not want to think about it.

      I would be excited to steal away a staple.  Delighted to come across a paperclip, no matter how many people had used it.  I pierced a girl’s ear with a staple.  She then pierced mine with the same one.  I would be surprised if I do not have HIV, although I have been tested since then, so I suppose I do not.

      My blood is thin.  It is thin, and it is usually very drippy and slightly translucent, not as rich a color as most.  Maybe something is wrong with me; oh, well.  I bleed for a long time.  Sometimes days.  But this could be due to the fact that I pop my veins for fun.  Yes, that would be a logical reason why.

       I gave myself a concussion.  More than once, actually.  A couple of times.  Because I am crazy.  I do not know why I did this.  I had to hurt myself in any way possible. 

      There were picnic tables.  Plastic, of course, so blood could be easily cleaned off of them.  Blood and piss, Danny the retard’s piss, because he pissed his pants.  Vomit.  Vomit could be cleaned off of there.

      There were screws under the picnic tables, holding them together.  I could casually rip my arm across them under the table.  The same thing had been done by countless people.  How I have not contracted HIV is a mystery to me.

      One time another girl and I braced ourselves under the table and cut ourselves open.  They called security from the adult hospital.  There ended up being about twenty staff members around us, including police and security.  They lifted the table up.  We were both taken into seclusion.  This is when I needed to see blood, more blood, more blood.

      My nose still hurts when I touch it in a certain place to this day.  It saturated my pants.  It drained down the drain.  That was what it was for.  After about 12 hours, I was shackled and moved to my bed to be bed restrained.  The blood dripped down my throat and made me vomit, but the vomit stayed on my face, for my hands were strapped down as a crucifix.  It was disgusting.

      Here was where I began to start vomiting.  When I would get panic attacks badly, I would vomit.  I still do this.  Quite often, in fact.  It burns my throat for hours, and I can’t stop.  I try not to eat too much so that I don’t, but I’ll just throw up whatever food I eat plus the diet Pepsi keeping me awake or the many cups of water I drink daily.  Vomit is the most disgusting thing in the world, besides s**t.

      I was told I would be sent to a wilderness camp.  I went the morning after I was told by my psychologist and my mother.