Soulmate (Cameron Dallas/ Nash Grier/ Matthew Espinosa/ Hayes Grier)

Chapter 82

I'm going through something, and I'm not sure what to call it. All I know is that I didn't want to write. But now I've realized, writing is my escape... and I hope my story is yours.
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I don't want to feel this way anymore.

Everyday is a never-ending whirlwind of disappointment, and I'm standing on the edge waiting for the final blow to push me off. And below, there's a river of tears yearning to drown me in its sorrow, desperately crashing against the rocks in an attempt to silence its frustration. But it doesn't work. The noise only gets louder and louder until it eventually drowns out your thoughts and it's all you can hear. Fists colliding with flesh, metal slicing skin, my mother yelling in his defense, my brother yelling against my defense. It's all I hear now. My ears are a black hole of agony, my body an object to violate. My heart a concept to trade off.

And so I ask, what's the point? What's the point if the flesh gets bruised and bloodied every time I open my mouth? Or if the metal slices through skin whether it's my doing or not? Or if the yelling of who I'm supposed to be and who I'm not continues to cloud my mind every time I try to think? What's the point of even thinking if they're not my thoughts?

I know this topic is about life, and many people associate life with beauty and art and whatever else, but I can't help laughing at their childish thoughts of an innocent world. The world is a dark, demonic place where life will drag you through an endless pit of Hell, then let you come up for air only to pull you back down again. Because that's what life does, doesn't it? Dangles a sense of hope in front of you only to rip it away? And you might think I'm being dramatic in writing about demons and Hell, even if it is just a metaphor, but I only write the truth. I don't sugarcoat it, for life has never been sugarcoated for me. I don't go around the tough, depressing subjects, I live them. And so you see, to have me write about life is completely ironic being that I don't really see a point in living at all.

And now coming to that realization, now that my thoughts are clearly aligned in ink on these lines, I can truly ask myself...

Why am I still here?

I look at the paper one last time before folding it and placing it next to my bedside table. I just stare at it for a while, as if my glare will somehow change the daunting truth into a happy fantasy. But it doesn't. So I lay back and stare at the bleach-white ceiling of the hospital, tracing the cracks in my mind. I try to turn them in to shapes, but they keep shifting into blades and pills and rope. I look away, closing my eyes to try and think of happy thoughts; but the only happy thought that my mind can conjure up is to be relieved from this world. My defeat forms into tears which now pool my tired eyes. It must be about three or four in the morning by now, and I don't know what to do with myself. I don't want to think because thinking leads to doing, and I don't know if I want to do. Not yet, anyways.

I sit up, wondering if I'm actually allowed to just get up and leave. The pain immediately hits my stomach, and I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. I take a deep breath and put one foot on the floor, followed by another. With all of my power, I stand up, holding on to the bed for balance. I slowly hobble out the door, not really sure where I'm going. I end up just sitting in the hallway because the pain is overwhelming. Resting my head on my curled-up knees, I begin to think of Dan and how long he'll be in prison. I also think of the statement I have to give the police tomorrow. Should I tell them what happened seven years ago? Would that also implicate my mother? I sigh, closing my tired eyes.

"Can't sleep?" I hear.

He sits next to me, leaning his back against the wall.