Back home, now what the fuck? Sitting here on the couch staring off into a space that doesn’t even exist but I want to stay in. I am aware that the tv is on but the place I have escaped to dulls the sound into a hum. The humming feels as if it is surrounding my body. I invite it closer. It is secure. It has hugged itself around me in some invisible bubble.
The moment I got home I hurried to the bathroom and literally jumped into the shower. I nearly slipped and almost busted my damn ass. In all the macabre I imagined myself half in the tub and half out. My ass having hit hard upon the scratchy bath rug. I could feel a hint of a smirk form upon my face. It was barely even noticed, brief. It didn’t even fucking feel right to be smiling. Not that I wanted to sit up here in this hell but I began to feel like I didn’t even deserve to be smiling or feeling good for any reason. In some way I had created the entire chain of events that led me exactly to the point that I was at. It led me straight into the deepest hole with the blackest waters that quietly waited below. Drowning began to occupy all the corners of my mind. I didn’t think of the struggle, I thought of letting go. Letting go into a welcoming dark where my feet would never touch the ground.
As I sit here on the couch my mind is full of nothingness. There is no anger and no sadness, nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. I am nothing, aware of it and ok with it. As for my body, this shell, this miserable useless piece of crap, I feel everything. I am fully aware of what they did. They left me with a tattoo on my body and even within my thoughts. Everyone would be able to see it even after all the bruises healed up. They have marked me as damaged. I couldn’t even fight back, I’m nothing. In the shower I had hurt myself even more. I tried scrubbing every last inch of their dirty fingers off of me, away from me. My hair is wet and I smell like the body wash I used, but I’m not clean. I don’t ever think I will be clean enough. I can still smell their fucking nicotine stained fingers upon my neck.
Dee has been away for a few days hanging and spending the night over at Twats and her wife’s place. Oh God, I don’t want to tell her a fucking thing, I can’t tell her a fucking thing. I don’t want to tell anyone. Enough people already know. I know she will say something when she sees the bruises on my neck. Fucking Jesus his hands were so damn rough, so callused. Pat, back to nothing, find that place of nothing again. While my wilted heart wants to shatter from my chest my mind wants that hum again and that invisible place of comfort. I feel so guilty. I’m the biggest piece of shit. There is nothing worse than my own very existence in this world.
I won’t lie to her. I will have to tell her where I was. I can’t do this, I can’t do this body, I can’t do this life. Just as suicidal ideation begins to encompass the very edges of every part of me, Dee walks in the front door.
“Yo punk ass, what’s up?” She falls into the couch.
I can’t even bring myself to look at her.
“Hey, what’s up man?” She half giggles but I can sense some worry in her tone. She could always tell just from what my body was saying was how I felt.
I slowly lift my head up to her. My eyes meet hers and I am trying everything within my power, the very little I even have left, if any, not to cry. Her hazel eyes catch the bruises that are on my neck.
“What the hell Burge? Nice fucking hickeys ya got there!” She speaks with disgust upon her tongue.
She won’t believe me if I tell her. She’ll think I am an even bigger asshole for saying I was attacked to cover up. The moment I see her eyes turn red and tears start to appear in the corners of them, I immediately turn away in disgust of myself. The last thing I hear is the slam of the front door and I hope it is the last thing I ever feel.