Chapter One
Looking into the mirror, I can't believe what I had become. My face was an off color, gaunt from no nutrition. My eyes, lifeless and dull. My hair, unkempt and mattered. Glancing down slightly, I could see the marks on my arms. The deep nasty looking marks.
Touching my arm lightly, I wince from the sudden jolts of pain. Yet I rejoice in the feeling. Besides the pain that sweeps through my body from the self-inflicted wounds, I was numb. I felt no happiness, no sadness, and no anger. The only feeling was the pain. And I rejoiced in knowing I was still alive, if only just for the pain.
I can't remember how I became this dead, walking corpse. I can barley remember a time where my life wasn't all about the pain.
Pain I caused.
I do remember the guilt I felt at one time for the pain I caused others. But that only fueled the need to add more pain to my now defenseless body.
A long time ago, I had a friend who tried to tell me to get help. A friend that tried to tell me that what I was doing was wrong. A friend that told me it wasn't my fault. A friend that cared about me.
But that was long ago. How long? I do not know, for I have lost all sense of time. I never know if it's night or day. I just sit in this prison I locked myself in. No one comes in and no one comes out.
Some would have given in to the will to die. But not me.
Do I want to die?
Yes, but I will not run from my problems. I deserved everything that has ever happened to me. The abuse I give and from the abuse my father gives. Everything.
What of my father, some may wonder.
All he has ever done was speak the truth about who I am. Who I was. He never let a day go by where he didn't say his shit. Not a day went by where he didn't drink so much that he went on a rampage.
No he never once hit me. Never once did he hurt me physically.
Just emotionally.
Day by day, he let his words seep out of his alcoholic self. Day by day I let the words he said to seep through.
Seep through my mind, destroying my hopes, my dreams, my heart, and my life.
Soon I found solace within the blade. The blade of a knife. The blade of a razor. Anything that would bring forth the pain and the site of my life’s blood.
The feeling I felt the first time I did this was relief. For I felt and saw that I was still alive.
What a fool I was though. The fool I am.
I am no more alive than the mirror before me.
My body may be functioning. But my soul is not.
But I'm okay with this prison of hell I put myself in. I know sooner or later it will all end. Everything has an ending. Some are happy. Some are sad. Some are painful.
Mine will be happy. For I know the pain will be over.
But until then, I walk this world, invisible to everyone who passes me by.
Maybe someday...
No, I will not fill my mind with false hopes of a tomorrow. I will not let myself feel the pain of losing it. Not again. I know that it is far worse than the physical pain I put myself through.
Stepping away from the mirror I picked up the clothes that lay out on my bed. Pulling the baggy black shirt over my head, I winced as the offending fabric ran across my wounds. I grabbed my equally baggy black pants and pulled them on. Picking up my brush I ran it through my long black hair, before pulling it back into a braid that went to my waist.
Walking out of my room I glance across the hall to the room adjacent from mine.
My father's room.
I could hear the news blaring from his TV. I could just make out the sounds of him snoring.
I quickly and quietly walked down the hall and into the kitchen. Pulling out the razor I held within my pants, I went to the sink to wash it. The dried blood that was semi-caked on started to slowly wash away as I held under the warm water.
It didn't take long before I carefully placed the now clean razor into my pocket again. Just in case.
Walking out of the house I made my way to school. It was a good fifteen-minute walk from my house. Not that it mattered. Half the time I skipped school anyways. Nothing there mattered to me. I had no future.
Not in the education ways anyways.
Stepping off the sidewalk and into the road I made my way across, listening to the cars that honked at me to move faster.
I walked quickly towards the building I kept my prize possession. An old run down building on South Main St. It was home for the homeless. A hang out for the outcast and druggies.
A getaway for me.
Walking inside the building the putrid smell of decay made its way to my nose, making me dizzy. It felt like home.
I made my way to the back where the hole in the floor was. The hole in the floor that I covered with a rug. Below the rug held my best friend. The other thing that makes me feel alive.
My guitar.
It was an old thing. But I kept it as nice as I could. Everyone in a while I'd have to find a way to gain the money needed to buy new strings.
Sitting down on the cold, wooden flooring, I propped the guitar on my lap.
I couldn't read music. I had no idea the difference between a B flat and an F sharp. Hell I wasn't even sure if those were apart of a guitar. All I knew was the feel of the music, as it would flow through my veins.
Closing my eyes I let my fingers dance over the strings. Almost immediately the world stopped turning. Time cease to exist. Everyone disappeared. All that was left was me, the guitar, and the music that flowed around; taking me away from the painful world.
I don't know how long I sat there playing my guitar. I don't know how many songs I went through. But when I opened my eyes I could see the crowd I had drawn with the music I played. As soon as I strummed the final cord, a loud clapping filled the building.
"That was beautiful!" A woman said as she held her young son to her side.
"You play with such intensity, with such soul," A man said with awe.
A strange feeling came to me then. Something familiar that I haven't felt in a long while. I couldn't put a name to it though. And I wasn't quite sure if I liked it, but I forced a smile to my emotionless face.
The crowd died away slowly. Soon it was just I and a lone figure standing in the shadows across from me. I could feel the figures stare on me. I ignored it as I put my guitar back in its hiding place.
I could still feel the stare as I made my way to leave. I walked slowly, still feeling the music running through my body.
As I walked outside I tried to think of where I could go. The clock on the building in front of me said it was only noon. I didn't want to go back to the hellhole of a house where I supposedly lived with my "loving" father. No. I didn't want to go there until I absolutely have to.
Making my way down the sidewalk I passed many people who worked in the city that were on their lunch break. I could feel the looks they send me that show off their pity.
Lifting my eyes off the ground I looked out to see the subway station in front of me. Shrugging I walked down the entrance. Many people pushed passed me in a hurry; not really caring if they knock you down or not. Assholes.
Shaking my head, I walked over to a lone bench and sat down. My head already pounding from the noisy sounds. I could hear a young child crying in the distance, the sound of a whistle going off, and the sound of footsteps hurrying to and fro.
I couldn't see much beyond a few feet of my vision, because of the wall that separated the waiting are from the actual place where people board the subways. What I could see though, was an older woman fast asleep on the bench in front of me. By the look of her rag-sewn clothes, she lived there.
The people that passed through my line of vision all looked to be business people. Most wearing their nice clothes and carrying briefcases.
Standing up I make my way out of the musty station. Stepping outside I try to figure out what I should do.
Making my way to the run down building again I walked inside. I walked immediately to where my guitar was but I didn't pull it out. Instead I just say there, wondering what I was going to do.
It was going on five by the time I realized I had fallen asleep where I sat. It was normal for me. I always slept while I was here. It was comfortable. It was where I could just get away.
Here was where I could be left alone to think or just sit and play my guitar.
Today was different.
Today I can feel myself being watched.
Glancing around I try to figure out who it was that was watching me so intently. Never before had I felt someone stare. People usually just pretended I wasn't there. Except while I'm playing. Many times people would listen and stare as I played.
Finally my eyes fell onto a pair of dark eyes. The person didn't look away like most did when they find themselves caught in the act of staring. No this person's gaze intensified. That's when I realized it was the same figure as before. Before I could completely think this through the figure took a step forward.
I nearly let out a gasp at what I saw. It was a young guy, probably around my age. He had long dark brown hair and equally dark brown eyes. He was slightly taller than me and skinny. Not skinny in a lanky way, but in a lean healthy way. He wasn't smiling, but I could tell by the way his dark eyes sparkled that normally he did. Looking at his clothes I could tell he normally didn't hang around here. He was to well kept. Wearing his hair back in a low ponytail, his black pants fitting him just right. He was wearing a black hoody and he held an old slightly beat-up skateboard.
The guy didn't speak as he came closer to me. Normally I would have tried to move away, but his gaze held me captive. He came to a stop right in front of my sitting form. Then he lowered himself to sit on his knees.
Cocking his head to the right he asked, "Are you okay?"
It took me a moment to realize why he was asking me this. Looking down to my hand I could see dried blood that had run down my arm from my earlier ordeal.
"Yeah."
Short and simple. I wasn't much for talking to others. I've always preferred to be silent. Silence helps me to keep a cold aurora that kept all emotions bottled up inside of me.
"Was that you playing the guitar earlier?"
Didn't this guy realize I wasn't in the mood to chit-chat?
"Yeah"
"Where did you learn to play like that?"
"Like what?"
I watched the guy sit back a little, pondering how to explain what he meant.
"Like you are the guitar."
Well that was a new one. Never had anyone said anything close to that answer. Shit who was I kidding? No one ever came so close to talking to me.
I just shrugged, how else was I supposed to answer a comment like that?
I watched the guy sit there. He seemed to be looking me over, like a kid does a toy at the toy store. His gaze drifted over my face and body, not once did he show what he was thinking on his face.
Finally he looked back into my eyes. I expected to see pity, sympathy, or even dislike in his eyes, but what I saw was something no one has shown me in years. Not since my mother at least.
They shone with compassion.
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