Chapter Text
Sometimes we expect life to feel easy. As if we don’t have to spend more than a few moments considering what to do. Or how to feel–or what to wear–or what pair of shoes to put on for the day–or what we are going to eat for breakfast–or how much time do I have to get out the door before I miss the bus?
We make micro decisions every day. And it is those decisions that ground us in reality. When we stop making those decisions, we begin to lose ourselves and our sense of reality.
When I skip brushing my teeth, making my bed, charging my console, and picking out clean clothing, I automatically put myself into an autopilot mode in which I stop thinking about the little things.
And soon enough, I am consumed by everything put on the back burner.
My homework, my friends, my family.
And once the bad habit has formed the procrastination sets in when I try to get back into the habit.
And it all becomes too much.
It's too much—
The sun shone directly into my eye, momentarily stunning me. Blinking a few times to relieve my eye of the imprint of light, I glanced about the classroom.
The picturesque look of the orange morning sun and pale blue sky is beautiful; the way it lights up the classroom is, in turn, almost as if I am reliving a memory. But as the sun moves, the gorgeous orange glow fades, and the sterile ceiling lights cast everything into a cold and lifeless environment.
An expo marker scrapes against the whiteboard, causing my head to twitch involuntarily. Mrs. Jacobs stood, a knowing grin plastered on her face that made anxiety build as my foot bounced beneath my desk.
“Good morning, Seniors! You all look well rested.” Mrs. Jacobs chirped, my fingers twitched. She made a sweeping gesture to the whiteboard.
‘Career Forms’
Before she even got a word out, several groans and long-winded sighs echoed on all sides of me. My own was inaudible, but the temptation to ask to go to the bathroom and not come back was growing with every second.
And it looked like several others were considering that exact thought.
“I know–I know, but this is for the greater good! Think about how much easier this will make decision-making the next month for colleges!” Mrs. Jacobs' heels clicked quickly around the classroom as papers were passed out. When she handed me my own, I huffed at the questions listed.
The only thing that would be easier to do would be to smash my head into this desk until it took me into the next life.
Then maybe this wouldn’t be so stressful. It all moved too fast–I wasn’t ready, would I ever be ready? Probably not, but how was I supposed to make a decision that would dictate the next few years of my life when I was utterly clueless to begin with?
What if I made the wrong decision? What if that decision led me to become a spiraling drug addict? What if I were rich but unfilled? What if I became poor and happy?
What if no matter what I pick, I’ll regret it because I don’t know what I want to do with my life?
All these years I spent being hassled by my father, only to find out that when it came down to it was even worse.
The expectations–
Ringgggggggg—--
Fuck.
Students emptied their desks at rapid rates, panic shot through me as my own paper remained pathetically blank. Only my name and the date to show.
Great–just fucking peachy, Mrs. Jacobs would almost certainly ask what the hell was up. Hold me here after class and give me the long-winded speech about finding my purpose and finding enjoyment in finding a life beyond these stupid walls.
Only a few students remained–swiping the paper up, I quickly maneuvered to Mrs. Jacobs ' desk, dropping it on her desk upside down to give myself enough time to escape out the door.
As I slipped out, Mrs. Jacobs called out–willingly, I ignored her, and regrettably, it felt like giving up.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
It was too much–too many things to remember–too many things to do–so many forms and classes and work and and and….
It was all so claustrophobic, every second pressing onto my shoulders, weighing me down, pushing me under the water–drowning me.
Why did I have to choose?! Why was I given so little time!?
I didn’t want to have this conversation today. Tomorrow– or fucking ever!
‘Fucking coward.’
So what? So what!
My teeth ground, biting the edges of my tongue, my eyes hot—
So what….
–0–
The walk home was miserable for multiple reasons. The main one is the sweltering August heat.
My body emitted sweat like a damned faucet– my feet hurt, and the sun burned my eyes. Squinting was the only way to see anything, not that there was much to see other than cookie-cutter houses that were only identifiable by the number screwed to the side of the door. Or mailbox.
My shoes scuffed against the concrete, mostly due to my slow zombie stagger. Which was self-induced because of the second reason, this walk home was so miserable. Dread coiled tightly in my stomach as the text message from my father repeated over and over in my head.
‘We need to talk when you get home.’
Eight simple words that spelled out my doom. My stomach was home to a dozen full-grown moths all trying to get out—the overwhelming need to just turn and vomit into the street was nearly unbearable.
Laughter drew my attention farther down the sidewalk. A man and woman were walking, wearing athletic clothing, laughing, chatting, poking fun–carefree.
I bet they figured out the secret, figured out their stupid love, with their stupid complete life. With their nice clothes and shoes.
Who has the time to smile? They must not have any crushing weight holding them down.
As they passed, I seethed at their laughter–my jaw clenched, annoyed. It was flipping annoying that I had to witness their lovey-dovey bullshit…
‘Shut up, will you–how about you shut up?’
A little voice overpowered the negative narrative running through my head on repeat. And maybe it had a point–what gave me the right to speak or think ill of another? Of their happiness? Maybe I just wanted everyone to understand my own suffering–how much pressure sat on my shoulders.
And yet it was practically invisible to everyone. Could they not see how tired I was–how much my shoulders sagged?
Did anyone even care?
Was there anyone…who cared?
I felt feverish as I stumbled up the steps to my house, my key in the lock turning but only stopping halfway.
.
It was already unlocked. Those moths turned into heavy stones as my memory replayed the text in my mind.
‘We need to talk when you get home.’
Dad was already home, kicking my shoes off into the mud room–I cautiously padded down the hallway, the opening to the dining room just barely in sight—holding my breath, I spotted the back of Dad sitting at the table. His hands clasped, and his back straight.
Oh shit. Oh shit—
Creeping forward, I tried to get past the opening, the chance of getting past felt high as—
“I know you don’t think I didn’t hear that door open and shut,” Dad spoke evenly, but there was no safety in it as a cold sweat broke out all over my body.
He was right, though; there was no way that he hadn’t heard that. Shuffling over to the table, I dropped my bag next to my feet as I sank heavily into the chair. My eyes were darting everywhere but Dad’s eyes.
He tapped the table, and my eyes snapped to the point of contact.
“So…you seem to know why—since you look so guilty. But I’ll ask anyway.” He took a deep breath. “Your English teacher called, saying you didn’t complete a ‘career form’, something she does to help students who are struggling–”
I mumbled, “Help my ass—” my arms crossed over my chest, “Excuse me?” Dad frowned–his voice pitching up a tad.
“Nothing–” I was stupid, why the hell would I say that? That wouldn’t help me; it will just make him angrier. Dad’s already trying very hard to rock the boat very much.
“It didn’t sound like nothing, young lady, it sounded like lip–” He warned, leaning into the table more.
Another person wouldn’t know it, but Dad hated yelling, hated the aftermath of it, but there was very little anyone could do in the face of so many fuck ups. I could barely stand myself, how could I expect my father–the one who's been there from the beginning, not to even be a little angry?
“It wasn’t lip.” I weakly rebutted, Dad took a deep breath, his jaw working.
‘Bite your fucking tongue!’
“Either way, this is important. I want a clean answer. Why didn’t you fill out that form? Or any of the other forms for that matter?” Dad’s hard stare pierced through me. And there wasn’t a single lie that wouldn’t crumble in the face of it.
“I just…” I swallowed hard, “It wasn’t helpful.” I stared meekly at he table, shame welling up in my chest at the absolutely useless answer. Frustration at the lack of authority it gave, and how it made my eyes grow hot.
“Wasn’t helpful?!” Dad barked, his hands flattening on the table. “[Name]. That paper–those worksheets- are there to help you define what you want to do with your future!” Exasperation seeped into his words as he stared imporingly at me.
I couldn’t speak; the words were trapped behind a lump in my throat. My eyes watered, and blinking rapidly wasn’t doing shit.
What were the right words to say? What did I say to end this nightmare?
“They didn’t tell me what to do!” I shot back, my words cracking around the lump. My knuckles went white with how hard I gripped my pants legs.
The wooden grain of the table was my only companion in this hellhole, the thrumbing of the fridge, the glare of midafternoon sun bleaching the grass in the yard—all of it useless to help me escape from this.
Dad sighed heavily, his shoulder slumping. “It's not supposed to tell you what to do. It's supposed to help you find what you want to do.” his face was so defeated as he looked at his pathetic excuse of a daughter.
He had done nothing but support me. Held me, cooked for me, made sure I never wanted for anything.
And to see that defeated look was so much more crushing than to be yelled at. Because at least you can throw water on flames to smother them, stamp it out with a towel–with the promise of getting my shit together, picking a route that feels like a suffocating noose around my neck as the seconds close in—
“I don’t know what I want to do with my life! Everything is pointless–it's all–all–it's all just stupid!” I shouted, my lungs constricting—I shouted, I shouted–
The chair screeched as I pushed back, yanking my bag off the floor and booking it down the hall to my room.
Dad's chair also screeched, “[Name][Lastname], you get your ass back here!”
I slammed my door shut, locking it and throwing my bag somewhere to the side. Hot tears welled up; they felt like they were burning down my face. Flinging myself into the pillows on my bed—I sobbed, hot tears staining the pillowcase.
Fuck fuck fuck–Useless, absolutely worthless—how could I ever do anything if I can’t even face the conscience of my actions?
Snot dripped down my nose. I sniffled hard, whipping it on my sleeve, breathing in a shuddering exhale, and coughing as mucus got stuck.
Pathetic—Why can’t I just get my life together? Why can’t I just be better? Why can’t I just…Why. Why? WHY!?
Every doubt about who I am and insecurity crawls through my mind. Have I ever accomplished anything? Do I even have anything of my own merit? Is there anyone who even cares if I'm gone?
Lying there, my thoughts petered out until I thought of nothing at all.
One moment, I blink, and the sun is blinding me; the next, it's dark outside. The crickets and cicadas loudy chirping through the thin walls.
The house is silent; no light shone from under my door, indicating that Dad was not up.
Sitting up, my chest feels lighter, and for a moment, the world is utterly quiet. No pain. No inner monologue. It's peaceful.
But it never stays quiet. Little worms of anxiety are crawling in my chest. I look at my desk in the dark, and perhaps playing a game wouldn’t be that bad. Flicking on my lamp beside my bed, I walk to my desk searching for my console.
But it wasn’t there. I searched desperately, under–behind–in the drawer, but it was gone.
Where in the hell—oh. Oh ho ho–that motherfu–
Dad probably took it to keep me from getting distracted from college bullshit! Yes, take away the distractions thats the answer! Don't try to find ways to maybe help your daughter with other means! Nooooo–that would be too easy–
‘Shut up. Dad is doing what he can, and you are being a little pussy. Man up.’
Retorically I thought back to myself that I was a woman, not a man, but that momentary snide waned as I felt my anxiety return at the reminder I had just slapped myself with.
Sighing heavily, I shook out my arms, flexing my hands–the itch to find a distraction was calling to me. Something that would just get me into the next day. The next moment.
My reflection caught my attention in my wardrobe mirror.
I looked…rough was putting it kindly.
Mascara stains ran down my cheeks, my clothing was rumpled with sweat, and my hair was limp. A feeling of disgust traveled over me–perhaps I could shower before I looked for a distraction.
–0–
I threw the damp towel into my hamper, my eyes scanning the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room. Volumes upon volumes of manga sat–each one a different world with different problems. Each feeling is infinitely easier to deal with than my own.
It was easy to seek purpose in violence because it was easy to say that people didn’t deserve to die.
It was easy to want to win–to seek out the perfect ending. That's the gift of a story, to show you the ups and downs of the hero, to show that there was purpose in expending your life for others.
My finger trailed along the books, stopping on the last volume of Kimetsu No Yaiba: Demon Slayer. I had yet to finish the series, and so if there was no way to drown my worries in a game, I would do so in the comfort of a story.
Taking the book from the shelf, I made my way under my covers, cocooning myself into a little burrito to wait out the night.
Several hours later, my eyes hung heavily as I shut the book, setting it down on my nightstand I reached up to shut my lamp off.
It was…a rather depressing ending.
Not that Demon Slayer was a particularly happy book, but I suppose that was supposed to be the message. The success of winning was built upon the backs of hundreds. A shared purpose, whether known or unknown to the members, was upheld.
Choosing compassion in a cruel world is the most radical form of strength.
And at the end it felt like the world finially tool its first breath into living.
If only there had been someone to let others have the chance to feel that too. To know what it felt like to be free, finally.
Darkness crept into my senses, taking my hearing, feeling, and sight. Until there was nothing but a dreamless void.
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"Thank You For Waiting."