Creative Writing,  My Writing

Sweet Release pt. 1

Alone. Everyone thinks they know what it feels like to be alone. They don’t. Or I guess some do, but most don’t. What most feel is lonely. They feel like they have no one to talk to about a certain thing. But those around them notice something is wrong, and eventually force them to talk about it. End of lonely feeling. Usually.

No, what I’m talking about is being truly alone. The kind of alone where, when in a room full of people who claim to be your friends, you feel this sudden urge to scream just to see if they will notice. The kind of alone where you actually seem invisible no matter what you say or do. The kind of alone that can make a person do a drastic thing. Like have a complete change in personality and personal style. Or it can lead to more dire consequences.

I tried the latter. Its not that I wanted to die as such, more that I wanted to feel noticed. I wanted to know if people would miss me, or even acknowledge me, if I was no longer around. Thinking about it, that was kind of stupid as I wouldn’t actually be around to see the aftermath of my own death. Oddly enough the moment before I blacked out I felt a sense of peace at not knowing what the aftermath would be like. In my head I imagine people wouldn’t be too fussed. Hell, some people may not even have known I was on the planet. That’s the scariest part about life. There are people on this planet that don’t even know you are around. They can be on the other side of the world, or the other side of the classroom. Brings me back to being alone in a way. I imagine it terrifies people the moment before they die. Even in a room full of people at that moment, you are truly alone. No amount of talking it out is going to change that. For me, however, it felt like every thing else in my life. How pathetic.

I used to think I had friends. They seemed to be there for me when my parents passed, but now I think it was because they felt sorry for me. It was all roses and rainbows for the first few months, then I would hear them talk about things that I hadn’t been invited to, and I would see the pictures. Then I just became an empty vessel. I was physically in all these conversations, but I never contributed and I was never addressed. It allowed me time to reflect. And in that moment I knew. I was completely and utterly alone, and had been for quite sometime, even when my parents were alive.

I guess I didn’t know it really bothered me until I took a knife from the kitchen and led it down a particularly prominent vein. But by the time I had realised that this was mt cry for help, my screaming in a room full of people just to see if I would be noticed. It was too late. The blood was running down my arm, vicious and red, glooping in odd places, and dripping onto the carpet. No one was going to notice. No one even knew where I lived anymore. The fear of being alone took hold of me for the first time. I wanted nothing more somebody, anybody, to wrap me in their arms and soothe me. It was then that I realised this horrifying screechy noise was coming from me.

My hysteria and the blood rapidly leaving my body, caused me to feel light headed and I could sense the end was near. I hadn’t made a footprint in the sand on this Earth. I hadn’t watched the sun rise from a car rooftop parked on a hillside. I hadn’t kissed under the moonlight or chickened out of skydiving. It wasn’t my life that flashed before my eyes, but the thoughts of what I hadn’t, but could have, done that flashed through my mind. All I could do was sit there and wait for it patiently. That was the scariest thought of it all. I was waiting for death, and it wouldn’t come personified to take my hand and lead the way. That was the final thought to cross my mind before I blacked out.

But it turned out somebody did care about me.

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