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Time was a mere repetitive illusion in which a young artist was slowly suffocating. She could not understand why it hurt so much, why the person who claimed to care about her made her feel so exhausted and empty. She could not understand why his care felt like acid, burning holes in her flesh, and pores inside her skull.
She could not understand why, despite him being the only person who had made an effort to care, she felt so . . . uneasy.
A bandaged hand reached out towards her computer and turned it on, bleary eyes being greeted by the artificially soft blue light that indicated the odd routine Ena had established over time was about to begin. She sighed and glanced at her injured hand, feeling a small pang of shame crush a part of her fragile heart.
She couldn’t understand what exactly made her so uneasy about him. He had first reached out to her through the comments of some small vent posts she had started making on her selfie account, in hopes that someone would simply just notice. Notice that she was drowning in a canvas of self hatred and worthlessness, notice something beyond the pictures she posted. He was kind. He would constantly check up on her, ask about her art, her life, her struggles and such. Occasionally, he’d make some odd comments about her body and selfies, joking about things that her naive self could not fully understand at the moment.
A ping briefly interrupted her thoughts. She ignored the dread clawing at her soul, and stepped into the cycle she had helped create in a way.
< Hey.
@enanan: hey?
She didn’t give much thought to those comments. She either changed the topic or briefly went along with those jokes, perhaps in hopes that he’d stop after the joke became repetitive. Part of her wondered every waking moment if going along with said jokes was what had doomed her to this . . . hellish love.
As time went on, the jokes became more and more frequent, and he started asking for increasingly sexual things from the young girl. He said it was a way to help them both relive tension, a way to help them both. Ena wasn’t sure how sending nudes of herself was in any way helpful to her, but she found out quickly that saying no often led to . . .
Another ping. And another. And another and another and another — in her musings, Ena had briefly lost track of time, and of the multiple quick messages that she kept receiving.
< I know you broke your clean streak.
…Huh?
< I know you cut last night. I saw the temptation in your eyes…
< Don’t try to deny it. I’m so tired of you lying to me.
< I know where you cut.
< Just…show me the scars?
What the actual fuck was this guy on?
Ena couldn’t decide whether to feel confused at the sudden nonsense, indignant at the sheer audacity of having something like that questioned and dismissed as a lie, or hurt at the fact that she wasn’t seen as trustworthy enough for someone to believe her on that.
She had been clean for a week now; an achievement she felt somewhat proud of, as it felt like proof that despite it all, things could get better.
@enanan: Genuinely what the fuck are you talking about???
The response read as harsher as she originally intended to, but hey, How else was she supposed to respond?
She didn’t know why she had started self harming in the first place, the memories of those violent and desperate moments blurring together into abstract nonsense any time she tried to recall anything about it.
When she had shared this with faux savior, he had demanded for her to always show him the wounds and scars any time she cut, as he claimed to have medical knowledge that could help her deal with the damage she had inflicted out of self hatred. It was sweet that he wanted to help, but after a while she realized that his advice was surface level things that she already knew, and that he often seemed more fascinated by the scars themselves than concerned.
In fact, he acted almost . . . Disappointed whenever her cuts were mere harmless scratches.
Part of her felt like she had to injure herself in dangerous ways at times, just so he’d stop being so disappointed and apathetic during those interactions. Thus the hand incident happened.
…
Her hand still hurt like hell, but the rather desperate and stupid action led to the reaction she had expected from him. A reaction that felt both validating and disgusting, for whatever reason that might be. The potential consequences of her actions led her to stop self harming out of fear, though. It was quite ridiculous the more she thought about it.
< Don’t fucking use that tone, bitch.
< I just want you to fucking trust me. Am I not good enough for your trust?
< I thought you didn’t hate me. So why won’t you let me help?
< After everything I’ve done for you?
Ena didn’t hate him. She couldn’t hate him. But, amidst the confusion and slight pain those words brought to her, there was a bitterness growing in her. She was bitter. She didn’t know why, but she was growing tired and bitter of this care. And she hated herself for it, because he was right. After everything he’d done for her, Ena still couldn’t even let him help? And worse, she felt bitter about his concerns? How horrible must she be, how selfish and underserving of love could she be that she was rejecting the kindness he was giving her?
< Fine then, since I’m not worth your trust I might as well just kill myself…
Well, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Not again. God, not again.
She knew where this was going. This had happened the first time she had tried to deny one of his requests, and since then it had become his main response to everything Ena tried to say “no” to. Horribly enough, the young artist had found out that after the instances and constant terror started blending together, apathy started to become the only way she could calmly act during these situations.
@enanan: Please. Please don’t
< Why not.
Times like these, Ena often felt like the concept of apathy itself was a different being, a different person that slowly took over her body, leaving her a mere spectator to whatever solution this indifferent person could come up with to stop this terror.
As always, this solution of course was,
@enanan: I’ll show you a photo as proof I haven’t cut?
< Really?
To give him what he wanted.
@enanan: Mhm. Where do you think I cut?
< Hm..your tights.
Even if it made her want to scream and cry in horror of losing a concept she couldn’t name.
@enanan: My…tights?
< I can just hang myself already if you’re gonna backtrack on your promise
Even if it made her want to beg to this apathetic self to stop, to run away, to tell someone, anyone, no matter the consequences or the judgements that may befall her, because then at least this would end.
@enanan: No no I’ll. I’ll send the pics rn.
But she couldn’t. How cruel must she be, leaving someone who just wanted to help her, leaving him to die because of her fears?
The brown haired girl watched as the apathetic figure took her phone to take the pictures. Ena tried to let the apathy fully block out the memory of what she was doing, silently begging herself to not go through with this.
She was tired. She was so tired. Her art during those days was messy depictions of the rot that was slowly consuming her, her body felt dirty and broken, her room smelled of sulfur and charcoal, and she felt like an altar for the incarnation of what she could only be able to identify years later as predatory lust.
Shaky fingers sent the photo, an action she was used to by now. An odd routine that she could never escape from.
@enanan: There, see? No cuts
< Hm…I just got it mixed up….those tights though~ my name cut there would look so hot :)
< Care to share some more?
Life was a play and all Ena could do is be forced to watch the same weird scenes over and over again. She was painfully aware of how the story went, how the never-ending cycle went. She knew that every interaction ended in something sexual, something she always had to go along with. He said it was merely just playing pretend, that it helped with stress and with immaturity, whatever that last part meant.
She sighed. The apathy had given her back control, rendering her once again as another actor of this cycle, rather than the unfortunate audience.
This was what love was supposed to feel like, was it not? It felt like hell.
Ena felt as though she would never escape from it. From him. She felt like a horrible, selfish and apathetic monster for wanting to escape.
After all, this was the only way she could be cared for, was it not?
Why would she deserve freedom from something she had brought upon herself?