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“It’s only another four years,” he was told.
Then, “It’s only three more years now.”
“You could do these last two years with your hands tied behind your back.”
Until: “Come now. It’s only one more year.”
The thing was, it never felt as easy as seeing it as only four or three or two or one more year. It felt like his insides were wilting. It felt like he wanted the scorch of tears on his face as he blubbered about how he felt, even though he knew it was better to swallow it all and nod and not complain.
Besides, he had no idea what was supposed to happen after that supposedly short and easy time had passed.
But that was no matter, he supposed. So, he just went through the motions. Go to school. Maintain a neutral face. Ignore the comments and looks and the occasional forceful ball thrown at him in PE. Go home. Keep the neutral face on. Do schoolwork. Ignore the constant complaints and tension. Keep it all in. Occupy himself until the night came and there was a small sense of freedom. Repeat indefinitely.
Somehow, but unsurprisingly, even after the time he was supposed to endure ran out, nothing had changed. He went on and the hollow assurances returned.
“It’s only four more years,” they said.
So, he kept numb and put one foot in front of the other.
There was nothing on the other side of the four years. He didn’t share much anymore. He loathed hearing the dismissive words intended as advice about ignoring bullies and how life would only get more difficult once he was an adult and just pushed forward, feeling less and less.
Only three years.
Only two years.
Only one year.
It didn’t matter. It was all the same. Nothing ever happened. The only constant was the numbness in his chest and the hot, angry urge to cry that he kept under tight control until he could let go of a few drops of it in the lonely privacy of the night.
But then, it was the cliché about teenagers, wasn’t it, that they weren’t understood?
When he was asked about school, it was always the same answer: nothing happened.
It was only the feeling that he didn’t belong, that he was ugly, that he wasn’t good for anything, even though his grades seemed to give the impression of the opposite. Only the feeling that there was nobody to listen to him, to hear him, to want him. Only the thought in the back of his head that he wasn’t supposed to be there.
But really, it was only a few more years.
Until what, he had no idea, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“See? It wasn’t so hard, was it?” lighthearted smiles that barely had any idea about ‘it’ told him.
He smiled back and nodded. It didn’t feel like anything. He just had to take it because that was life. Only another year and another and so on.
Only, he didn’t understand why he had to go on when it was so pointless. But, he supposed, he had it easy. He only had to study and keep going and ignore the occasional though of what difference it would make if he wasn’t there.
But he couldn’t do that. That was selfish and would burden his family. Besides, he would be misunderstood yet again. It wouldn’t matter then, but still, he just had to keep going because that was life.
Another year, then another and another.
The skin of his hips burnt as he shifted in his seat in the seminar room. Like always, he kept a neutral face, even as the discussion drifted to the question of why someone would intentionally cause themself pain. He pressed his lips together and focused on the page before him as images of neat, red lines flashed into his head with more red sluggishly beading out. He kept quiet, like always, then went back to his dorm room and pushed himself into work.
He thought about it, like one thought about buying a house or starting a family. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it. It would put a strain on his already strained family. It would be selfish. Besides, his problems, if they could even be called that, didn’t warrant such an overreaction. If he could do it in a way that didn’t burden anyone, then maybe. But that wasn’t the case and this was just the way life was.
At least, he wasn’t given the old reassurances the same way anymore, even if only because he didn't share much about anything. He went ahead with no real purpose, numb even to the ever-present urge to curl up and sob and the daydream of being comforted like a little kid who skinned their knee.
Still, he kept a neutral face and went on. There was no point to it, only to push through, to be done with it and do the next thing that also wouldn’t feel like anything.
That was life. Only another thing to get done. Only another year. Only the feeling of not feeling. Only the sense of being an utter waste. Only the knowledge that he couldn’t end it, couldn’t be so childish and selfish. Only the non-relief of shaky lines, their stain invisible on black fabric.
Only the sense that none of it mattered at all, not the numbness, not the aches, not the hollowness, not the nothing feeling.
It was how it was.
Only another pointless year passing without his notice. Then another. And another.