The Devil All the Time

        The curtains never seemed to draw as close together as they do today, fulfilling their purpose of blocking out all semblance of light and life. I feel worse today than I've ever felt. The thought of dying has never made me smile as it does now, a jolt of excitement running down to the pit of my stomach, where it churns into a nervous swirl. I think hard about how I am going to do it. It excites me in a terrifying kind of way, and I bounce my leg as I think about the pain. There seems to be no way to die painlessly, but I hate pain. I've been in enough pain, I don't want or deserve to be in anymore. But the silence. The silence that I will hear, The silence I will feel. Isn't it worth just a bit more pain? Just an hour of pain. Pain like I've never felt, and like I will never feel again.

        I've never believed in God. It's never catered to the way I was raised to think, or the way I view the world. There is no creator who watches over you. No omniscient being favors you, the universe is not capable of love. Even atoms are never truly able to touch. We are not together, we cannot ever be. From the beginning of time, we have all been completely alone. The illusions of touch, of understanding, of love, are all just the result of the need to keep our species alive. We are not special. We got lucky. Some of us are luckier than others. Some people were born to parents who were always kind, who very rarely flew off the handle. They got to believe that life is good. That the world is good. That God, or the gods, or the universe were on their sides. Others of us were born into a fire, ready to be stoked, fueled, and fed. Some of us were never wanted. Some of us don't get to believe in childhood church hymns. I was born in the latter of the groups, and whether that is fortunate or unfortunate; I'll never know. All I know is that I never asked to be here, yet everyone acts like I did.

        I never thought that it would come to this. To me, sitting in the dark, smiling at the idea of not existing any longer. I used to be happy, a long time ago. I can't remember the last time I truly smiled. The last time I felt like life was worth living, like I did belong here. I just know that it felt good to have a purpose. It felt good to value my life. When I could look in the mirror and see the raw potential. I was an angel getting ready for their first flight.

        Now, I see this black-eyed thing. A monster, bigger than I ever was. Bigger than I could ever hope to be. I didn't ask to be this way. But after burning wood for so long, it becomes coal. Black, brittle, and when burned again, toxic. I can't get over this. I can't push this out, or lift this off, or fight this. This is me. This is my nature. My parents call it manipulative, and as Christians, they also call it sin. My leg bounces again, as I consider taking Ibuprofen. They watched me slump around the house like a ghost, forgetting to eat, going to sleep at ungodly hours. They watched me and blamed me. I lied so they wouldn't get angry, and they always found out. It's a vicious cycle that I fully intend to break tonight. This thing won't let me go. So, I'll take it down with me.

        Every day I can feel it. It feeds on me, on what I used to be. Who I used to be. I was good. God, I was so good. They used to love me, want me. I miss being that way. This thing that's taken such a liking to me made me horrible. I am a liar, a cheater, a piece of shit that my parents never asked for, or wanted. I could never tell until I could. My mom especially. I always knew she never wanted me. I knew she wished she would have gotten rid of me. She saw this thing on my back from the very beginning, and she stoked the fire and made it grow. She knew what I would become. Just a puppet on a string. It was just a little bit at first. A feeling of slight sadness and dread. But every year it got bigger and bigger. Until it was too big for me to carry. I can't get it to shrink, no matter how much I talk to friends, and therapy is out of the question. Money runs the world, and we have little power over it. Now, I feel it. Not like a shadow. I can feel it, on my chest and my back and my head. I feel it everywhere. I feel like I'm living as an ant with a parasite, directing my movements, telling me what to do and what not to do.

        It feels like a festering wound. The infection spreading throughout my body like wildfire.

        It feels like a raging fire or a creeping cold.

        It feels like a hell that I could never control. Everyday and Every night. When I breathe, when I speak, and when I think. It feels like the devil, all the time.

        "Ibuprofen and Acetaminophen."