Not Serious

Shaking in the dark fearful someone will see. Hair oily from lacking a wash, body dirty from no soothing waters, stomach either bursting with garbage or gurgling sickly from the acidic void; none of these pleasantries given. None of them felt deserved. Invisible wire sewn into the trembling lips that will never tell. Eyes now too dry to cry and too wide to sleep.

The pain needs end.

The cuts weren’t deep enough; the hospital staff only gave judgmental stares. Your family was angry.

You were just asking for attention – shame on you.

The pills didn’t work; another trip to the hospital. You awoke. They were madder than before. Charges now being made, your mother’s pill addiction unsated.

They didn’t take enough – they weren’t serious.

The bleach made your throat burn. Each gulp closer to bliss. Darkness came. More Velcro shackles in a sterile room when you awoke. The screams of anger no longer reaching your ears. Let me die.

Bleach? Oh, please, you’re really behaving like a child.

No rope to be found. Only a collection of belts connected by buckles. The leather pinches your skin as you kick the kitchen chair. Sweet euphoria as you slip under. Your hip hurts as you awaken on the cold floor only to wail and see that a buckle had broken with your weight. No yelling this time. Only hushed mutters when they see the welts on your neck.

If they were smart they’d have used wire or rope.

One final chance. A careless uncle is now your friend. Cold steel is welcoming. The barrel giving a metallic taste. The final finger bend of relief accompanied with tears. Boom.

I guess they were serious after all. I’m sorry. I wish there was something we could’ve done.