Hell Is Better With ??? - Sequel to Welcome To Hell

??????? 5.5 - ??? ????

I wanted to stop dead on the sidewalk, to sit and allow the emotion to come out. But I didn't. I kept walking, and walking, the cries never stopping. I yelled when I needed to yell. I screamed, when I felt the pain rising in my chest. I felt like I was going to implode with the heartache. How could I be this damaged from strangers? Maybe it was the hope for change, for a friend.

I didn't recognize my surroundings, but I did see the river. I knew I had to be near my school, and probably closer to the house. I wondered if my parents wondered where I was. Would they be worried that I didn't come home? Probably not. Maybe it was a relief for them that I didn't come home.

I reached for my phone to check the time, and find my way back, the pocket that normally held my phone empty. My cries stopped for a moment as I focused, frustrated. I checked each pocket, nothing. Memories of where I had laid it in the bathroom flashed in my mind, along with when I finished, grabbed the cup, and walked out.

Great.

I groaned loudly, probably closer to a growl. With no sense of direction, and a lost cell phone, I chose to walk towards the river. I didn't walk quickly, or even with purpose, really. The tears continued down my cheeks as I walked, some followed by cries, some silent.

Nobody followed me, I kept my eye behind me as I walked but wouldn't protest if someone came out from a dark shadow and hurt me. I don't think I would feel it. I wish I couldn't feel at all. Maybe the attacker would take me out of my misery.

Once at the riverside, I stood staring into the dark abyss. It looked like a black hole just over the river, so dark. I wanted to be there. Somewhere with nothing, nothing to hurt me. Somewhere with nobody. Why was life so painful?

Does everyone live this way? In pain? How could I make it through this life? It hurt to even think about the possibility of still feeling this way 10 years from now. It hurt to think even a year from now I'd be in the same position. Wake up scared everyday, go to my classes for a passion nobody supported me doing, leave and find somewhere to distract myself before going home again, afraid to face my own parents. Everyday. For God knows how long.

I was so hungry. My stomach growled at me as a reminder to feed it something besides liquid. I found my way over to a bench, taking a seat. I slouched in a way I would've never sat had it been daytime. I stretched my legs out, my hands flying up to hold my aching head.

And I let more cries out. I felt lost, in more than just a physical way. Was there a compass for emotional well-being? Would I ever find the right place to be? Where do I belong? Do I belong? Sobs racked my body, my stomach beginning to hurt from all the alcohol I had consumed, and all the crying I had done. Oh, to be numb.

I couldn't stand to sit any longer, standing and walking in a random direction. I could see the bridge in the distance, the same I drew in my art everyday. And so I walked to it.

I didn't know what I was going for, I didn't know where I was going to begin with. I felt blinded. Blinded by pain, and lack of guidance. My feet carried my body as if they had a mind of their own, my drunkness wearing off. I wasn't ready to let go of the calm I had at the party just yet. The alcohol, the music, being apart of a crowd, with no sense of own. It was what I had looked for for so long.

I didn't want to feel, or be in my own head anymore. I just wanted to be. The party was short-lived, but that feeling was there. It was blissful, for just a short moment. I wanted it forever.

I didn't want to be anymore. I wanted not to exist. If this is what life on Earth is, I don't want it. I wanted to be accepted. And loved. I wanted to belong not only to someone, or something, but to myself as well. Here, I felt too much.

Maybe I was a pussy. Not enough of a man to live my life correctly. I did it wrong. Or did I? If I did it any other way I would be letting others control me, living for others, and that's not living. Is it?

My hands fisted to my sides, anger filling me. The tears fell on an endless cycle. If only tears could be the pain slowly leaving my body. The pain would never leave, though, I knew that. I kept my eyes at the sidewalk, never once looking to make sure I didn't run into anything. I was so in my own head, I didn't even feel human any longer.

I came to the walkway up the bridge, my feet mindlessly carrying me up. I struggled in some steep spots, the fatigue hitting me. I felt like I could fall backwards at any time. The wind was strong lower on land, but here it threatened to pull me down with it. It pushed my hair in any direction.

My hand wiped at my tears, angrily. I pushed just slightly too hard, putting pressure on the bruise from my mother's abuse. It was a small bruise, just enough to show something had happened, but it was too large at all. It shouldn't be there. The abuse should've never happened. The bruise wasn't a sign of love.

I continued up the sidewalk of the bridge, some cars driving by every once in a while. I paid no mind to them, just as they did to me. The headlights burned my teary, red stained eyes every few seconds. I didn't let myself look over the edge of the bridge, just continued up. The incline made my thighs burn, but I didn't care. I hoped the pain would be so bad, it would take my mind from my mental pain, or the pain in my chest.

I hoped that one day my parents would think of me with proudness. Or love. Wouldn't they want the love they received from their own parents to be given to me as well? Was I really not deserving enough?

Everyone deserves love. Nobody deserves to be treated with neglect, or disrespect. To just compliment someone, even if you don't support them would be enough. Somehow it was always too much for my parents.

Maybe the issue wasn't in my parents, but mankind itself. The words of Chris' unnamed friends rang in my head on repeat. Is it that hard to be nice? To not speak badly behind peoples backs? To give them a chance?

Or maybe the issue wasn't with either of them. The real problem was me. The problem was that I was too weak to walk the Earth and live happily. Who knows.

What I did know, was that it was too late. It was too late to change myself to fit my parents' mold, their expectations. It was too late for those people to take back their words, and their intention. It was too late for my mother, she'd never be able to take back her words, or for her to take back disowning me as her child. It was too late for my father, for the years of disrespect he poured onto me until I couldn't stand to even look at him. It was too late for me.

Too late.