Forgetting Roman

{thirty-five}

{thirty-five}

                With only three hours of sleep, I woke up around the same time my mother did and joined her in her morning work-out. In university, I had worked out a few times with Livvy, but when she didn’t drag me out with her, I was usually cooped up in my bed, doing assignments.

                So I wasn’t really surprised when I collapsed on the floor from exhaustion. My mother had pushed me extra hard during the hour and a half exercise circuit. Though my mother was in her early forties, she was possibly more fit than a twenty year old in their second year in university- she was a lot fitter than I was that was for sure.

                Throughout the work-out, she kept pushing me, telling me to let my anger flow through my veins and pour out through my actions. So I kicked and punched with all my force. But what she didn’t know was that I letting go of all the anger and hatred I had towards myself.

                Here I was, living, acting, like I hadn’t broken down just a month before.

                I had promised I wouldn’t hurt myself, yet I did, and I didn’t even have the guts to admit it to her, to Dr. James, to anyone.

                So I kicked and punched harder each time I thought about how fucked up I was. Because I was hurting the people who loved me even though I was positive they didn’t, that they were just acting like they did because they had to keep up their appearance with the outside world.

                The cuts hadn’t healed, but I had worn a work-out sweater while exercising. It wasn’t that odd since my mother was wearing one also. She said it helped you sweat a lot more so you could burn more calories.

                I wasn’t concerned about how many calories I burned, I just needed to keep them hidden until they completely healed. Some had, the small ones had scabbed over and healed in the weeks since I had broke, but the deeper ones, the ones that needed stitches but never got them had slowly been healing.

                Now, practically a month later, they were almost gone. Yet, I knew they weren’t going to be, because once the cuts had healed, scars would be left in their place to remind me of what I did.

                You’re a horrible person. The voice in my head laughed. It had been absent for weeks but unlike last time, I wasn’t going to let it get to me.

                I needed to be strong.

                I couldn’t ruin these Holiday’s.

                Things were starting to get better…