Evidence of my Existence

Evidence of my Existence

 

The dark, night-fallen sky handed out the spotlight to each star, one at a time, and watched as each one danced and shimmered alongside the crescent-shaped moon. Their luminous glow was the sole source of light in the room, gleaming through the screen window beside me. The crickets hidden amongst the tall blades of grass broke the silence that had begun to deafen me"the sound welcomed serenity through each layer of my skin, rapidly dissolving into my veins.

Bringing my mind to a tranquil state was a challenge in itself; being left unaccompanied with my own thoughts is actually quite hazardous. Each individual memory acted as a strike of lightning, only visible for that split second. It was my job to dispose of them in order from first painless recollections to then traumatic elicitations.

I cautiously closed my eyes as instructed, fiddling with my fingers which rested at my sides. Her instructions were soothing in such a monotonous voice, deficient of even the slightest ounce of sympathy; it delivered a sense of stillness and bliss to every bare atom in the room. Her yellow, faintly lined notepad was the evidence of my honesty over the past year, the evidence that gave me the ability to say that at one point, mistakenly or not, I had let someone in. We through the notions of her describing, in detail, each traumatic experience I’ve told her about. I would listen, taking in every word, and letting myself delve back in time to any given moment. Then, she would flip to another page, reading off the next one. She opened her mouth, about to speak, when she suddenly stopped herself, reading quietly the words printed on the paper. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and glanced back at me. This one is sure to be accompanied by pain.

The moment she began to speak, the memory began to taunt me. Dull nails were violently clawing at my sides with anxiety and pain pulsating through each and every fiber of my being as I relived every frame. My back was still tightly forced against the hard, flat surface of the brick wall as a result of his shove. My nose was bleeding profusely from the brutal strength of his punch. His fingers began to trace the outline of my chin, as though deciding the perfect timing to make the next blow. At the speed of lightning he recoiled his arm, clenching a firm fist before slamming every crevice of his knuckles into my chin for the second time. The sound frequency of his friends’ laughter echoed off of the metal locker as they sauntered away, remorseless.

There was a loud pounding in the room, alongside a heavy, unstable breathing pattern. It wasn’t until I looked up at her concerned eyes--the first sign of empathy she’d ever shown--that I realized the sounds were reverberating from my ambiguous body. Remembering my purpose of being here, I shortly realized that there was only worse to come.

“We can stop here for today if you wa--”

“I don’t.”

She slowly flipped to the next page, her eyes looking weary. I knew exactly which memory this was. The most recent, and the most triggering. I mimicked her deep breath, laying my head back against the rough arm of the sofa, and closed my eyes, awaiting the return of my painful past.

Her words began to act as the paintbrush, and my mind as a blank canvas. Each syllable she spoke was a single stroke of the brush. My eyes drifted downward to the knife tightly grasped by my weak, throbbing fingers. My throat was dry. The metal lock nailed to the door was, in this moment, what separated me from life from death. Beside me lay clutters of shattered glass from the smashed window as a result of my situational insanity. Some pieces were minuscule, while others were just barely fit into my palm.

I was longing for the perfect moment; the moment I’d hear the front door shut, the moment I was sure I’d be completely alone. After six long years of different medications that always failed, the disgusted looks from my ‘friends’ at the sight of my scarred arms, and even more so my family, it’d all be over.

The sound of the unsteady breathing pattern returned to the room, this time accompanied by a small whimpering. The sides of my body were aching in pain as a result of my violent and involuntary scratching, only halting once my eyes began to slowly open, and my fingers lost their strength.

Author's Note

This was an assignment for my Writing for College course. I'm not sure whether or not I'm going to continue it. If it gets positive reviews, then, maybe.

Reviews

[E.V. Black]

This is a story distraught with pain and anguish. I can only guess at the source of both, but the hints are profound. Your storytelling is extremely detailed, each single thing shining beautifully in its own manner. You definitely have the feel of a poet, and I think you would also do well to try your hand at poetry. Beautifully haunting story.