Polyphia

E L I J A H

I take one last drag from my joint and put it out against the wall. The smoke surrounded me, creating a cocoon. A cocoon of peace, numbness, and safety. No one was home, so I guess that meant I had a few hours to myself. Maybe even a whole night if he decided to pass out at the bar.

As I lied on my bed, I saw how, slowly, my cocoon travelled in my room, stroking the drawings and doodles that decorated my white walls. The last rays of sunlight from my window, creating a pink-orange tint, were the only colours that filled the room. The only thing that brought light to the room. The walls surrounding me are nothing but joint burns and dreadful drawings; very black and white. There used to be colour in this room. I remember waking up every morning and the first thing I would see was a drawing I made, using all the colours I could get my hands on. I remember how excited I was to pick a piece of paper and having to choose which crayon I could use, as if opening the door to my imagination. Yet, it's funny how over time, those colours start to fade, as the pain turns into numbness. It's funny how the unimaginable can strip the colours away so easily, in just a matter of seconds.

This house, this room in particular, has never felt like home. The wall in the kitchen where my mother wrote down my height over the years didn't feel like home, and neither did the old swing in the garden where my dad would spend hours pushing and playing with me. None of it did.

This house, this room in particular, has never felt like home. The wall in the kitchen where my mother wrote down my height over the years and the old swing in the garden where my dad would spend hours pushing and playing with me, didn't feel like home. None of it did.

It's been four years since my world was torn apart. It's been four years of hell. Not a day goes by that I wouldn't wake up with cuts, bruises, pain... I wasn't talking about the physical pain.

Slowly, the room was getting smaller and smaller, and I was gasping for air. My hands were shaking, and my eyes were darting from one side to the other, but even if I tried, I couldn't see the drawings as black dots clouded my vision. I was in pain, my whole body ached. Yet, the pain didn't come from the bruised rib or the healed cut. No. It came from inside. These four walls were closing on me, and I had to get out. I needed to go to my safe space, my hideaway. I had to go to the bridge.

Oh, the bridge.

For anyone else, they would only see it as an abandoned bridge on the outskirts of town. For me, it was where I would go to get away from reality. Fucking corny, I know. But here I was, making my escape from the world; this vacated space was my haven.

***

I watched the stream run under the bridge, taking broken pieces of glass, empty water bottles and dead leaves along with it. Although the weather was warm, I couldn't help but feel a light shiver whenever the breeze would move by. It was already getting dark; the orange or pink tints were replaced with rich blues and deep purples up in the sky. You could see the rush hour from here, as well as a few houses. But there's one that has always stood out to me the most. That perfect brick house with white window frames, decorated with flowers on each windowsill, and a small garden at the front. Every time I sit on this bridge, I always get a glimpse of the life inside that home. So beautiful and so full of life.

I know their routines like the back of my hand. Roughly at around this hour, the father would slowly drive into the driveway, as the children, wait with excitement, ready to tell him about how their day went, what they learnt today at school and so on. I imagined that the eldest, the son, would talk about how he scored a point whilst playing football during break time or what he scored on a maths test. The daughter would talk about how she wrote a story in English or some shit like that. The, the three of them would walk in and into the kitchen, to greet the wife, who had been cooking dinner all evening. They would all pray before eating and soon enough, once the kids are tucked into bed, the parents would sneak into the kitchen, drink a glass or two of wine and fuck like a bunch of horny teenagers.

It's the same old story every single time; to the point that too much repetition gets tedious. But even if it gets tedious, why do I feel a tug in my chest every time I watch them? Why does the same question burn at the back of my mind? Why can't I have that? Why can't I be happy?

Why is it so unfair?

***

I managed to climb into my bedroom window without crashing or making any loud sound. Carefully, I lock my bedroom door and dim my lights. The quicker I am, the better; the quieter I am, the better. No sound is coming from the other side of the door, so I guess he's either passed out in the bar, or down our hallway. Either way, it's a win for me, no bruises tomorrow.

Once I'm in bed, I close my eyes and sleep, adjust my head onto the pillow and feel the smoothness from my bed covers, but it's no use. Somehow, managing three hours of sleep, two cups of coffee and a Red Bull has been how I functioned for a very long time. I can't even remember when the last time was, I slept for a good solid seven or eight hours of sleep with no interruptions in a good bed. I especially don't remember the last time I slept without having to lock my door.

As I waited for the sleep to take over my body, my eyelids growing heavy and my breathing to slow down, I always had a glimpse of hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be different; that all this pain would go away. Maybe I would find my happiness. But I always must remind myself that this is the real world, not everything is fair. And no matter how hard I remind myself that my hope will never come true, a slither of it will always run through the cracks of my twisted, broken heart.

Maybe there is hope for me in the end. 

Hello my Fine Specimens!

I know it's been a while, and with my job and University, I basically power out when I get home. But now with the summer holidays, I am back, fresh and better than ever.

Plus, what better start to post more chapters than today?? Why??  Because it's my Birthday!! Yup, your girl is 21 years old. 

Nevertheless, I know I have been busy, and I honestly don't know why I stopped posting. I was on fire, until the pandemic, that's when literally everything paused. My ideas, creativity, my energy... it was a dark place, not only for me, but also for many people. I want to say sorry to all of you, as you guys have been so patient with me, and I completely understand if you have given up on me. I am NOT guilt shaming you all.

But I am happy to say that I am back, recharged and HAPPY. I have new ideas and I am SO excited to share it all with you guys.

I love you all  ❤️