Without Hope

I quietly creep into the house, and snag a banana from the fruit bowl. Mima loved bananas. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches. And diet Moxie. I’m on the verge of tears again, but I don’t feel the despair anymore. Just a numb exhaustion. The house feels quiet and empty as I move from the kitchen to the stairs. Somewhere at the top of the landing, I hear muffled subs and soft words of comfort from aunt Lily. Mom must be crying in her room.

I go to my room, and pull the blinds shut. I pull the curtains closed, too, to smoother the remaining flecks of light. I’m tired, so very tired, but in a worn out sort of way. My life was falling apart one piece at a time. I couldn’t concentrate in school–soon I’d be failing; I was falling off my horse–one Olympic dream down the drain; I was slowly loosing my grip on reality–one psychotic episode at a time; mom was constantly trying to bend me to her will–and I had no choice but to submit; and now mima was gone–gone–forever.

This time the tears brought the despair with them. It feels like a monster trying to rip its way through my chest from the inside out. I want to scream and rage and break things, but not external things, internal things. I want to rip and tear at the pain. I want it to be something tangible that I can fight, that I can destroy, but its like grasping at shadows–dark, cackling shadows that know they have the upper hand at last. They dig their slender fingers into my brain. Their fists clench around my heart, and slowly crush the life out of it. “Nothing,” it whispers.

I curl up on the bed, crying, hoping for the sweet release of purged emotion, but I can’t reach the bottom. It claws at me, deeper, and deeper, “Nothing,” it whispers again, and I begin to realize that the shadows are right. I have nothing. I am nothing. It’s all pointless, this fight to be the best. I’m a bit of broken biology, riding a rock around the sun. Nothing I do matters. It’s all just a meaningless cycle of birth, life, death. What is the point? I remember the medication on the nightstand.

Leave a Comment ↓

No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: