I hear the light sprinkle of
rain on my window. A computer's fan is whizzing in the corner. There is the faint sound coming from my sisters TV across the hall
behind a locked door. She left it on again. This
sound is calm, soothing.
The quiet you expect at three in the morning. That static-ey noise. If you listen it can be loud, but its being drowned out, its faint. Like
waking up in your parent’s arms when you were three and hearing the distant voices of hundreds of people caring on their own conversations in their own world, unaware of you, never discovering you the way you discover them, never to see or hear you the way you see and hear them.
They are faceless; the friends you make every day with the casual smile or
friendly hello. But you don't remember them. You see them every day at the mall, store, movie theater, or in the car next to you at that red light that seems to linger on endlessly as if
it is trying to make you mad. But you don't notice the light when you are three. You are also
in your own world. You notice these people less and less the more you grow up. When you grow and start driving you notice the red light more. You lose time for wondering, you lose childhood. You realize more that
people think you are crazy. As a child you don't care if they look at you funny or what they think when you are walking down the street with
a pile of junk you found in
various corners of the street. The street you grew up on and of which the only memory you have is the blue sign that says "Bayberry". The pink house that you would rest your head in at night, and the canal past the fence that you would jump every other day, not worrying about any
danger, just your
adventure. The
fading memories, like a car that is running out of gasoline the more you use it, but which the only way to enjoy is to drive it. They don't understand that
the pile of junk is just a rocket ship in another form; they don't see the vehicle that will take you to
Algishia to meet
Salazar, your
imaginary childhood world. They just see a crazy child. Later in life you notice these children too.
Now as you forget about Algishia and
grow on to greater fantasies, you realize they all think
you are just suicidal. One cut and
you’re crazy. They never tell you to your face, you just realize later,
maybe too late, maybe if they told you, you would have remembered the thrust stabilizers on the ship, then the rocket wouldn't have crashed beyond repair and you'd be on Algishia.
But they didn't care, it seemed. Later you realize something you knew all along,
they just love you. They didn't tell you because they think you ARE
suicidal, they think a comment would make you
kill yourself. Like how they didn't tell when they thought you were crazy, they thought you would take the rocket apart and give up. But this was so different;
it was the same. You are not suicidal,
you were not crazy, you won't kill yourself and that rocket would have worked. They don't see that, they already made their opinion, you're crazy, you will commit suicide. They don't know you
love them too, that you won't kill yourself because you realize it will hurt them, more than you. That's why you
stopped yourself from
cutting today.
But
they don't know that. They don't see the times you stopped from
killing yourself because of them, they just
see the scars. Like how your dad doesn't see the six As on the report card, that one hidden B, hiding under a sea of its superiors, not wanting to be found, that is the only one he comments on. How your mom doesn't mention the ten times you stopped smoothly in the car, the only thing that ever gets noticed is the one time you slam the brakes hard to make the red light, through her screaming and yelling,
she doesn't even notice you stopped
on time.
And it bothers you to know you won't kill yourself,
the thoughts are nothing, and they only see one
scar born of anger on one night like this where you were on lack of sleep and not thinking correctly. That one scar is all they judge you on. They feel they have to care for you now like a child. Not to say things that will make you think about suicide. And this is what will drive something in us mad.
They don't know you love them and that you never wanted to hurt them. They don't know
you stopped yourself for them, no; you're just the suicidal kid who needs special attention. Like something different,
nonhuman. And this thought angers you, almost the anger you felt that night,
that night the cut that betrayed you was born. That cut that told them what you did. The cut that spoke. So you go to sleep, because the thought is becoming too much, and
you don't want it to make you nothing, because you do love them, and even if they will never find out how much you really care or what you did or what you thought,
you pull the knife away from your wrists.
They'll never know, and the knife won't talk, it will
remain quiet, unlike a
scar or dead bloodied body on your white bed sheet. It won't tell them
how much you love them, it won't tell them that you did this, that
you did nothing, absolutely nothing. And all for them. They don't even hear the loud thump on the floor from the knife dropping, the knife that didnt cut you. I did not hurt me so I would not hurt them. I did nothing to me, I did nothing for them. I did everything for them. They don't know what I've done.
They dont know what i've done.