I have no idea what this piece will become.



I.

Nothing feels real.
-Not my hands.
-Not my legs.
-Not my voice.
-Not my existence
-Not even my life.
Nothing can or will be real ever again.

---

I thought about too many things walking down that alley. I was always thinking and letting my mind run away from me, but I always hated how much and how far it went and how fragments formed into obnoxious run-on sentences, or paragraphs that just never-ended, with no stops, just infinity and -
I did it again! My god, I swear I've found all of my flaws, but have yet to fix them - not even one.

I began to think of a flaw that I could maybe start to fix. Perhaps walking down to this alley in the middle of the night was one of them. That, certainly, is a flaw I could change.
As soon as the thought reached me, so did the pain. The pain shot from my hips and radiated through my entire body. We both knew that I was here, in this dark fucking street, searching for him and that he hid to make the game much more exciting. I understood, at least, I did; then I got angry and tried to leave. He didn't like quitters is what he told me and he seduced me back into the game again. I told him I would stay and play, I promised. Yet he didn't trust me still. So when I wasn't looking, he attached me to strings. He attached it just so that when I moved a way he didn't like it would pull my bones and skin and make me quake in a horrible, dull pain.
The first time I felt that pain was the first time I thought about my flaws. This time, when I felt the pain I decided this was definitely a flaw I could fix. I thought, "I could change." But I quaked again and he pulled much, much harder.

The worst part of everything was that sometimes I hated him, but most times I hated myself. I couldn't make any of it stop. Not the hatred, not the obsession, not my thinking, not my silence, and certainly not my existence. Far too often I would determine the worst: I am always going to be like this. This will never stop. For now, I said every piece of me is gone. I said, "Nothing will ever be real again."

---

Once again, I awoke exhausted. Sleep was the worst thing known to humankind. It did not rest me, but exhausted me. I thought, "Or maybe it is not sleep, perhaps it is just me." I only thought this because I could vaguely remember a time where I once loved sleep, but then again, I thought, maybe my mind is making things up again.
When I woke I got ready for the day ahead of me, but I'd begun to dread every day. I did not try to paint my face or flatter myself anymore. I did not care enough to make and effort. I resented myself for allowing myself to be held captive.
My parents stared at me while I gathered my things. In the months prior they had begun to resent the breakfast I no longer ate and, later, the meals I would avoid. They cooed in attempts to give me what I needed, but I didn't want what I needed. Everything I needed was too much. Simply because I, myself, was too much. After their efforts were unbearable, I would resign to my journey to school. Every morning was always the same.

The halls were not my favourite place to be. There were too many people, issues, excitement, feeling... Places with filled with emotions were not for the eternally numb, which was, naturally, me. However, I had taught myself to look ahead, for every venture through the halls meant I was closer to the comfort of a classroom.
My teachers no longer noticed my existence, nor did those whom were once my friends (emphasis on the past tense). Yet, I did well in school and remained in the top twenty of my class. School and then graduation would become my escape from this evil inside of me. Then, the days would no longer be a bore, as they would no longer remain the same. Graduation was a few months away and the fall of independence would, surely, become my savior. I was always positive about such things, always naive- I had no reason to believe that my current theory would not prove to be true. Because, I said, "If I believe in this, then it will believe in me."

---

I arrived home to my mailbox, as I always did. I lived my life through habit. I did everything, everyday, in the same order, always. If this ritual was not performed, I would fall apart. But today my schedule was disrupted by the abrupt return of my own emotions. My head knew I was not allowed to feel anymore. Feeling was too much for me to handle, too much to understand. As it was, I was left questioning my sanity whenever I felt anything at all.
I had come to find a big, bulky envelope in my hands. I could feel my heart fluttering, and I could see my hands tearing it open. I was feeling too much already. But once it hit me that this was what I had been waiting for, my guaranteed ticket away from this evil in my head, there was a goofy, gleeful, grin stretching my face. Now though, my day of 'always the same' had been paused and I could feel it hitting me faster than the happiness had. I could not breathe, I could not think, I thought I would cry, I was unraveling. My panic was evident, but it was no strange occurrence; I panicked often.
Of course, these attacks had a ritual, too. I stumbled into my house, up the stairs and into my room. There was no one with me, and I was fearful of this fact. I could feel my heart, and it felt as though it was dying. I panicked more and more with every passing second, but I rummaged through my things until I found my secret stash of pills. I popped a xanax into my mouth, took a sip of water, and swallowed the medication. My panic corner was empty and I crawled my way to it, closed my eyes, and held my breath.

Waiting was never something I enjoyed. Five minutes seems like days when you believe you're dying, but I began to feel the medication effecting me the way I wanted. I began to breathe, reasonably, again. My eyes opened, I straightened up, grabbed the bottle, and slowly stood up. The little bag of pills in my hand returned to their hiding place and I, consequentially, returned to my rituals.
Everyday was always the same.

---

More in a day or so.