Without You

Chapter Five

But when I stepped foot in that house, I saw red. Blood red.

I gripped the framed picture of my dead family and flung it forcefully. It made an aggressive contact with the wall and shattered, pieces of glass scattered around the room.

That's when hell broke loose.

It was as if something snapped, and I had no power over it. A restless beast released from its cage and ready to destroy everything in its reach. My mind was clogged with so much anger, so much pain, they drove me mad; to my breaking point.

I couldn't control the tears from falling, the harrowing sobs from escaping my trembling lips, and my incapacitated form from unleashing its anger to the furniture.

I grabbed Nana's favorite rocking chair and repeatedly slammed it against the book shelves which held her once precious books. They fell to the floor, torn into shreads. With every hit, I'd yell, angrily spilling the pain into the damned chair. I broke her favoured lamp beside the bed, shoving anything and everything to the ground so it would break just as how my life fell apart.

The chair eventually broke apart, and I threw what's left of it to the side. I stared at my shaking hands, wood splinters covered them; piercing my skin and making them throb achingly. But it didn't hurt, it felt numb. The pain that overpowered my heart was much worse, it didn't compare.

I was blinded with rage and contempt, the whole house was turned upside down; like a tornado came and wrecked the place. I was the destructive tornado, and I was unstoppable.

Life had tested me to see if I was able to push it through, to see if I was strong enough. It should mark me with a big, fat "F" because, clearly, I sucked at it. I wasn't good enough, I failed. I failed my parents, I failed Nana, and I failed life. I aced at failing.

I glanced up and saw my own reflection staring back at me. I wheezed from how much I was crying, little oxygen was passing through. My face wet from the tears and sweat. My heart pounding in my chest a mile per sec. My hair clung to my head because of the sweat; it was so hot in here, I was suffocating.

I couldn't stare at myself any longer. I couldn't look into the eyes of a failure, a worthless lowlife. I gritted my teeth and slammed my fist against the mirror, cracking it. Blood dripped from my wounds, slowly making its way to the floor beneath me; but I didn't even flinch.

The sight of blood put me at some kind of ease, it felt great feeling the pain; seeing it escape my injured hand. I found myself holding a sharp, silver object. It glistered seductively at me, tempting me to use it on my flesh; to release the agony.

Not once throughout my life I thought of self-harming, I always thought it was meaningless. If I cut, it wouldn't bring my parents back, it wouldn't do me any good. I never understood the people who self-harmed, so I couldn't judge. It just didn't make sense that people wanted to inflict pain on themselves.

But . . . I wanted to feel the pleasurable pain of it. I wanted this haunting suffering to end. I wanted to see my blood drip.

So I did.

I gently drew the bow against the strings, creating a beautiful symphony of intense emotions and red. I momentarily closed my eyes at the satisfying burn it left behind.

At first, nothing happened. But then huge droplets of red formed and stared to roll down my wrist, trickling to the white floor. It felt so good. The searing sensation put my tumultuous head at rest; my unquiet thoughts were finally peaceful.

I did it once, twice, and thrice; until I couldn't stop. A pleasing sigh escaped my mouth as I felt that heavy feeling slowly lifting up.

Finally.