Thank You For the Venom

Diren M | / | comment

Today #1

Today was an absolutely shit day. I'm left again thinking that I'm a worthless and ugly piece of shit. Also, I was ignored by someone I kind of may or may not care about. Which - you know - really, really sucks. And now that stupid hoe has just entered the bus - god, what have I done to deserve this?

Today #2 

I feel like throwing up, do you even know what an asshole you are? Do you know how much it hurts? And I'm sick of wondering what exactly it is I have messed up and this is not the first time that I'm feeling like this because of you and I just don't want to see you anymore, don't want to talk to you anymore. All I want to do is to throw up because there is no way, no way at all, I can keep all this inside of me, all this bullshit, all this hurt, the rejection, the aching, the pain, the feeling of being unnecessary and not welcome and just a worthless piece of shit and waste of time.

Thank you for making me feel like that. Thank you very much.

Anything at all

Diren M | | comment
My brother disappeared on the coldest day of the year. It had been snowing for a week straight and it was impossible to go anywhere. It kept snowing and my mother was a mess. I waited for spring to come and things to get better again. But it never came. 

The home in which my grandfather lived was not very far so I used to visit him frequently during that time. I had a few people I hung around in school but I wasn’t too fond of neither of them and couldn’t imagine having conversations about anything that mattered. He always greeted me with a cup of hot chocolate and gave me his favorite blanket to sooth the winter’s cold away. 

My grandfather was an amazing man. He had refused to fight in the war and gotten into quite a bit of trouble but that was probably what I adored so much about them. He met my grandmother and it was love - real, proper, true love, the sort one would only find in romance novels. They had brought a son to earth - a wicked, adventurous and handsome man, my father. 

It always wondered me why someone like my father would fall in love with someone like my mother, and I wonder if my mother was different back then. When I ask Pop this question, he always says, »Oh, no. She used to be a bitch even back then. Still there was something that my stupid little son saw in her that I couldn’t see - and still can’t see, quite frankly. She’s a maniac if you ask me. But what do they say? Love is blind.« 

Pop and I we didn’t always talk. Sometimes we just stood there together on his bed, side by side and looked out of the window - watched how the snow was falling and turned the world outside into a mystery. Those were the best times.

In my free periods in school I spent my time with three guys who I guess one could call my friends if you want to, but I wouldn’t say that. I knew some stuff about them - mainly because they didn’t know how to shut their mouths and enjoyed talking about themselves a little too much. However, they hardly knew anything about me. I didn’t want them to and they didn’t want to, so everything was perfectly alright. I mainly hang around them so people wouldn’t call me a loner. Because if you were a loner, it caught people’s attention. If you were just third wheeling with a bunch of weird people no one took notice of you. And that was something I was more than fine with. 

It was winter break when Lars ran away from home which I was glad for. Some of my mother’s annoying friends had found about it and Littleton being Littleton it never took much until news spread around. I definitely did not have the nerves to talk to anyone about this and more importantly - I didn’t have the nerve to be forced to talk to people who didn’t really care about me and who I equally didn’t care about. 

Sometimes when it was snowing so much I couldn’t even walk the short distance to Pop’s and my mother was freaking me out more than usual, I just lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling feeling absolutely nothing. 

I hated feeling nothing. 

So once I just took that little knife - the one that had once belonged to my father - and cut my thumb with it. A tiny trail of blood flowed down my finger leaving back a slight ache. 

I felt happiness pouring over me as I saw the blood. It was the first time in so long that I had felt something again. Pain was more bearable than nothing.

-- Inspired by this