8
Ifeel sick.
My lower lip trembles while I keep my eyes from moving all over the place.
I lose my thoughts.
My fight-or-flight response leaves me frozen in place instead.
My voice doesn’t come out when I try to speak.
He turns and looks ready to walk out, but at the very last minute, he turns his head, letting me have a glimpse of his sharp jaw. And then he is gone.
The fluidity at which he moves, the soundless steps despite his large figure as he rushes off, leaves me breathless.
As soon as I see him jump, I run towards the balcony, shutting the doors and locking them. I slide down the doors to the floor, then pull my knees up to my chest.
He left.
Thank God he left.
I wouldn’t have been able to escape him if he stayed.
My head drops on my knees. Everything is spiralling out of my control.
I am tired of being who I am.
How much do I have to bear while being a puppet to my fear?
To my mother?
To what everyone expects of me?
I wish I could dig into my chest and rip out my heart and let myself be free of this slow, painful demise.
I rise to my feet and walk to the bathroom on unsteady legs, shedding all my clothes on the way. In the shower, I rub at my skin as if the steaming hot water can erase me. I rub, rub, and rub until my skin is red and raw, the scars burning and burning, but I don’t feel satisfied.
A lone tear slides down my cheek, and I wipe it away.
A monster like me shouldn’t hope for good things. I don’t deserve it when people have suffered because of me.