What's Wrong?

The Fuck Up

You fucked up.

You never thought it would turn out like this, did you?

Well, not at first. But now... Now it seems kind of inevitable.

When did it all go wrong for you? What did you do to deserve this?

Honestly, there aren't answers for you. Yet you just keep asking, you poor, sweet fool.

Let's go back to where it all started, shall we?

A blinding light.

The rasping thud of your bare feet as you shuffle unsteadily forward. The mortifying loud clank of the toilet lid hitting the back. Your fingernails are too long and scratch the back of your throat painfully. That awful deep, coughing retch and the splashing as you double over. It's coming out your nose too, and you fight back panic as you helplessly gasp for breath between heaving.

You cringe, and the mess floating in the water sets you gagging again.

Eventually, you grab blindly for the toilet roll and scrub your hand, and wipe away the disgusting trail of drool from your lips to that nauseating soup. You blow your nose, though not enough to completely erase the stench.

Sneering in disgust and self-loathing, you flush the toilet, wash your hands and face, and set about vigorously brushing your teeth.

You feel weak and shaky now, well, more than usual. The toothbrush moves in halting jerks.

Blinking back unexpected tears, you exchange a glare with the blood-shot eyes of your reflection.

There's blood when the toothpaste hits the sink and you hastily run the water to chase it away, wincing at the rattle of the old pipes.

The towel is harsh and scratchy on your skin as you roughly dry off.

Bleach the toilet, flush it again, spray the air freshener.

Stumble out and turn the light off.

Like it never happened.

You're not bulimic. No, that's not what this is, though maybe it's just one branch of the rotting rose bush your mental health has become.

But no.  What this is about, would be self-harm.

It's not that far off masochism, that burning need to utterly destroy yourself, raze yourself to the ground, annihilate your entire existence.

It's irresistible.

When did it start?

You stopped eating properly, started staying up way too late, starting taking anything sharp enough to your forearm, until ruddy scars run from wrist to elbow and your body is covered with stretch marks.

Until you have dizzy spells moving too quickly and your clothes collapse under your touch, as though you're a skeleton and your stomach feels several sizes to small, and you get cold so painfully easily and your face is etched with a smile of malicious satisfaction.

Until your immune system disappears and your limbs turn to spaghetti at any exertion, you fight not to cough wheezily with every exhale and a constant headache throbs agony with every palpitating heartbeat.

But it isn't enough.

No. Piercings run up ears and over your face, and you feel a giddy delight with every addition, a  grim satisfaction when lying on themsends bolts of pain zapping deliciously  through your body.

It's all so mundane, so unbearable. You can't stand it.

You pick yourself apart, piece by piece. You ruin your perfect school record, abjectly refusing to do homework, zoning out in class, taking any and every excuse to ditch.

You take dark pleasure in every shocked and disappointed expression from the people around you.

Because it hurts. Oh, fuck, how it hurts. Like a sledgehammer to the face, or an icicle right through your vital organs. The pain rebounds and ricochets around you in an overwhelming cacophony.

You want to die. But most of all you want to suffer.

Why? Why are you like this? Why do you want to tear everything down? Out of boredom? Masochism? Are you seriously just that fucked up?

Does it matter?