I've always pondered on deaths door, but he's never opened. I could care less about the hell and heaven shenanigans, but death. I want it. The end of my life.
I want to be in my suit, in my coffin, in the ground and my soul to be gone. I've been wa...
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I refuse to talk about my last melt down. My parents keep trying to bring it up and I keep shutting them down.
I try spending as much time with Nida to avoid any conversation with them however I'm unable to avoid their actions. They keep coming into my room in the middle of the night to see if I'm asleep so I've been pretending to sleep. They've locked the supply closet to stop me from cleaning, but they forgot to lock the tool box. I'm still able to take apart computer monitors.
They believe their actions are helping, little do they know it intensifies the fear. I've found myself losing grip on reality as I'm sinking deeper into this reliance on meth. It's the only way I'm able to stop my life from unfolding right in front of me.
In spite of that, I still sense my mind attracting an insane mess as I can't focus on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. Conversations, numbers, decisions. It's all slipping out of my mind.
No matter how bad it gets, I refuse to reach out to friends or family as I'm afraid their words will be hollow or meaningless.
This constant feeling of drowning has no diagnosis especially since I don't want to search for one. I'd rather wallow in self-pity than speak. I'd rather be out of my house than be near people who recognise my routine. I'd rather indulge in drugs consumption than undergo this overwhelming fear that swallows me whole.
As I sit by the kitchen counter with my phone in one hand and a spoon in another, I shove mouthfuls of Shreddies cereal in my mouth.
My parents have invited many families that live in the estate to our house to enjoy a dinner for no reason other than to show off.
I watch the chef my mother hired whip up all sorts of dishes to feed the guest later tonight while the butlers run around the house like headless chickens.
The maids clean the house from top to bottom while my mother and I sit by the kitchen counter, observing them.
No work will be done by us tonight thanks to my mother hiring all these people to do it for us. I feel rich looking at these people. It's weird bearing in mind that we didn't have this while I was growing up. Unlike my mom who always had these people around her house in Portugal. Perks of growing up rich.
My mother picks up her Vogue magazine, flipping through the pages as she reads up on the latest fashion trends.
I put down my phone and pick up the Shreddies box, reading the back like I've never seen it before. I still have so many boxes of Shreddies from the time I went with Dylan to CostCo. I'm drowning in Shreddies.
"See this, Noah." My mom says showing me something on her magazine. I lean into her, seeing the most ugly dress on the runway. "They call this fashion?" She scoffs, shaking her head at the photo.
I copy her response, scrunching up my nose and staring at the picture. "Clearly, we're the only two people in this world who know something about fashion." I respond, running my hand through my hair.
