James Mandarin

Gravity

Once you reach the top, you fall to the ground. It is the law of gravity. It is the law of physics, the earth and life.

My scars are healing. I can feel the flesh slowly knitting together, bit by bit on my wrists. I can feel my cuts harden as a scab forms. It's bright red with small lines and tiny bumps. It's like a rough gravelled road, a bumpy ride in the car. It's like the rough waves of the ocean, a sickening boat ride.

Wherever there is a high, there is a low.

The world elongates before my eyes, like a never-ending piece of string. My eyes burn and yet, water refuses to fall from them. My nose aches and I don't know why. My chest constricts as I breathe.

In...out...in...out...in...out...in...out...in...out...hold

It's a never-ending cycle.

There is a burn, a fire inside, devouring my soul. The flames of hell dwell within me. It is said that those who stay in hell suffer forever. Maybe I am in hell, but refuse to acknowledge it. Maybe I relish in living a lie, too terrified to face reality.

Hollie stands at the counter, scanning books. The never fading look of boredom is etched across her face like a painting.

Her face is the canvas, her hair, the paint, and her features, the final product.

Hollie has long, bony fingers, fine and smooth like a bottle of paint, and soft like the bristles of a paintbrush. I watch the way her hands glide over the books like a bird does within the vast expanse of blue sky.

I need to paint. I haven't done so in a while.

I need to restock my painting supplies. I used my pay check to buy Chloe an expensive custom made notebook as a friendship gift. I know she'll like it. I hope she likes it.

I finally finish shelving the books.

"Hey buddy. You okay?" Ben asks as he walks past me. I nod my head, looking away. How can he tell something is wrong? Is the word mental, written across my forehead? Can he see the dried tears on my cheeks and my cracked lips? Does he see the protruding ribs beneath my shirt? I watch as he walks away, whistling happily. He'll never know. He'll never understand.

Hollie frowns when she sees me. "Did you get wasted last night?"

No, I want to say. I cut my wrists last night.

But I don't say it. The words die in my throat. They fade to dust in my voice box.

Why? I'm ashamed. Cutting hurts. It kills me inside. It tears my skin, rips my veins to shreds, scars my muscle and gnaws my bones.

Why am I ashamed? Why?

Cutting is my friend. It's like a drug. It is a drug. It is my friend in the darkest night, my constant companion, my guardian, my lover, my everything.

I cannot escape her.

I can still see it on the ground: the razor.

I can hear in the whisper in my ears: cut.

Nostalgia twists my brain: "You shit head!"

Loneliness squeezes my chest: "No one cares"

Chloe's voice comes to mind: "I will never love you."