MEnAce (peterick)

14 - Patrick

TW

~~~

Here I am. Back with the madness. Champion of those who don't believe they are worthy enough to be champions.

I've lived so much life. I've lived enough life. I've prayed to non-existent Gods: Enough. I'm done. I can't do anymore. I don't deserve anymore.

If there is a God, he's sure had a tough time trying to get rid of me. He knows I've been going way too fast, for way to long. Enough. I'm done. I can't do anymore. I don't deserve anymore.

Enough.

In a confined space, I lack control, restrained from inflicting pain. My instincts run on autopilot; therefore I am the pilot. I so badly want it back. The control. I need to inflict pain. And if I can't on those who wish to control me, then on myself.

I guess I am my own worst enemy, after all.

It's been so long since the last time I dug a blade into my own flesh. If I remember correctly, it was in a bathroom stall. If I can recollect, I killed brutally that day. I expected nothing less than to end up in a place like this. I threw myself into the deep end.

And it was worth it.

But perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps I dove too deep.

Is it even possible for someone like me to reconsider my actions? Too late for that now. I don't regret any of what I have done, but in some ways it's obvious I do, because otherwise I would be enjoying this time out of mine quite contently.

Oops. I did it again. I forgot what I was losing my mind about.

Today I wake up on the wrong side of reality. And then a thought crosses; I've been sleeping. But in actual fact, I've probably only been in here for a number of hours, and it is impossible to decipher any sort of time.

The thumbnail on my right hand is probably the sharpest of all ten, uneven and jagged where I have gnawed at it. If only the hand were free from its leather binding, it could be used at the perfect makeshift razor blade...

My hand snaps cleanly at the wrist.

I'm accustomed to self-inflicted pain, but I still grit my teeth to keep from screaming as I wriggle the broken joint out from underneath the strap holding it in place. Distress is unnecessary and futile, and any sign of it would only alert unneeded attention.

The scars on my soft, pale wrist have faded from several months of abandon, healed over, though not insensitive to pain. So as the serrated thumbnail gets to work renewing them, I bite down hard on my tongue until hot, metallic blood explodes in my throat. I bite harder, I dig deeper, and my skin tingles fiercely and my eyes fill up with stinging hot tears that burn like acid.

It's one of the few reasons why I restrain myself from crying because the agony is truly, terribly unbearable.