Work Text:
That chilly night back in 2022 washes over me like the coldest wave the Pacific Ocean could conquer; violent and unyielding.
I sit by my bedroom window, staring out at the neighbouring buildings of my apartment complex, yet the main focus is on the miniature plaza down below that could have been my haunting sight all those years ago, the plaza that hangs above the dog park. Again, the place that held the dirty pavement that could have once been splattered with my guts, and hundreds and thousands of pieces of brain matter, mingling with the fucking pavement full of dog shit.
It feels corny to say that comparing my value as an individual to a pile of dog shit, or worse, has been the constant condition I've been forced to live with since I was around 8. And that my heart physically aches every time I think about that, so I push the thought deeper into the tiniest corner left of my head, despite it having a circumference and radius and-
Fuck, I should be studying. My IGCSE Business exam is tomorrow, and I doubt they'll replace the 15-mark 'induction training' section with 'How are you feeling today, child?'. Because for 15 marks, I hope the examiner loves to read about irrelevant teenage drama.
But I really can't help my fingers from typing away at the laptop excessively instead of taping off this screen and getting some fucking work done.
I guess the reader has heard many times before the word 'I want to die', either at the expense of a really bad joke, or an actual teary confession. But I hope it hasn't become too oversaturated, like the industry I wanna break through with my shitty writing.
So yes, I want to die. If I'm trading away that chilly night back in 2022 for a peaceful afterlife. If I'm trading away my fingers, my thoughts, my eyes, my brain, my heart, all for the mere semblance of relief. All for a place to store that lingering thought in my head, away for once. Then I would do it.
I just don't wanna cry anymore, honestly. Would it feel okay to just give up now and mingle with the pile of dog shit if it means the only bodily fluid that will ever cascade out of me in languid strokes is my blood? I'm so fucking scared to do so, though.
The illusion of a completed dream feels so fleeting in my grasp. It can no longer envelope me in its warmth anymore. The walls of this treacherous maze I, involuntarily, decided to traverse, are closing in on me.
I'm so fucking scared, again.
There's nowhere left to hide anymore. This humiliation ritual that my mom has put me through—of keeping my door wide open as I type away at my computer, as the tears bundle up beneath my eyelids—all because of a fucking fight, by the way, has honestly become the final nail in the coffin, for me at least.
Nails? Yes, the same nails that pierced the hands and feet of the supposed merciful Son of God, whom I'm meant to meet once I crash through the pavement of dog shit. I'm meant to be Christian, but I guess I'm Agnostic. Yet my doubt still lingers.
I don't know how to end this. The text, I mean. The ache in my heart has lifted slightly, not by much. I'm just honestly scared. I don't know who I am meant to become. And why I'm meant to persist. To see how well my life will pick up if I just let time do its thing. It feels like the tunnel I'm walking through has no light at the end of it.
Maybe the light is the big pile of dog shit I'm meant to plunge into? Maybe it's only a matter of time? I just know that today I'll turn away from my bedroom window. I'll get some work done, only because some people believe in me.
Today was one of those days again, and I'm just hoping I can keep my head floating above the waters of the Pacific Ocean long enough for there to be another day, and another, and another, until I see a light.