It didn’t hurt when I did it- but then again my mind was already too cloudy to feel anything. There was blood dripping down my stomach from running into a sharp fence that I jumped over to get to this side of the building, but I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t hear the street noises; the hustle-bustle of the New York City traffic made me feel as if I were intoxicated. Then again, maybe I was- I can’t remember. The note from my sister that I had tucked under my shirt sleeve fell to the ground. I watched as it fluttered in the wind before landing abruptly, and wondered if that’s what my sister must have felt like. It felt like I was already dead, or, near dead rather; I was watching my shaky hands pull out the bag my mother had given me. I watched myself prepare it, before injecting it into myself. I watched the tears fall from my face, and hit near the injection site.
But it was too late. I didn’t give a care for anything or anyone in the world. That would be the last time. No one could hurt me anymore; people tell me I’m just hurting myself, that I’m asking for it. They think they know everything. They think they are wiser, just because of their age. Well, let me tell you something, age doesn’t play into maturity- experience and journeys do. Not that I had many. That’s my own fault.
They think I can’t hear them right now. They are trying to save me, but I don’t want them too. I liked it.
That’s what it’s like to not feel anything. Perhaps that’s how my sister felt before she died; while she was still living at least. Does happiness feel like anything? I imagine it as being pretty close to feeling nothing. Feeling anything is the equivalent to pain anyways. My mother always told me you were weak to feel pain.
She would hit me to make me stronger. My soul never was that brave.
My sister must have been blessed with the elegance of strength. I always got compared to her. I was never good enough. She had the perfect body, I wore baggy clothes to hide my bruises. My mother would always complain about my knees being too fat- and why couldn’t I just work out more like my sister? I needed to eat less. Then I wouldn’t be as heavy.
She would hit me to take away my appetite.
My sister brought home good grades every quarter. I never did. I could never concentrate.
She would hit me to give me something to concentrate on.
My sister was never home that much, she had a lot of friends. I didn’t have any. Connecting with people was never really my thing.
She would hit me to make me understand what it was like to be affected by something; then I could understand what it’s like to be affected by a person.
My sister could have had the world if she wanted it, and my mother would have given it to her. I don’t understand why she killed herself.
My mother’s way of handling grief is by pretending my sister never even existed. She tells me that she doesn’t have time for my childish imagination. As if the daughter she worshiped for years was only a figment of my imagination. She tells me I’m crazy, that I need help. I need help. I need help!
I am weak and I am crazy! I must feel numb, I have to stay strong. The hitting takes the emotion away. I am worthless.
She slipped me some of her drugs that night- she made me take them. She made me inject them into my system. She watched me. She did it too.
Now I lay in a hospital bed in a coma. I can hear the nurses talking still, though they think I can’t. I will die at any moment at this point. The chatter jolts my nerves, which are dying one by one. Once they take away the life support, I’m gone. I’m back to the state of watching myself from above, I’m already long gone.
The nurses watch me closely, empathetic looks spread across their faces. A doctor enters, and confides with another, “Her record indicates strong mental distress, probably from trauma, and we know she’s here from an overdose. They found drug paraphernalia on her along with a note she had written to herself.” She shakes her head in sadness. “The mom was arrested on site this morning; no father, no siblings. Such a shame.”
She wipes a tear from her eye. “These stories really get to me, I could’ve helped you know. There’s always help. Drugs aren’t the answer. I’m glad her mother is behind bars. People like that don’t deserve crap.”
I want to wake up. I want to tell them that they are wrong- that my mother loved me, she was only trying to help me. I want to tell them about my sister, that she’s everything I could only imagine myself to be. There records were wrong. I want to tell them that it’s my fault, but it’s all too late.
I’m already gone.