I miss the blue of the sky that I used to see. The green of the grass that no longer appeal to me. The red of the roses and the yellow of the sun.
When I used to look outside, I was gripped by color. It would force me to enjoy them. I would have to stop and smell the roses or lay down and watch as the clouds made different shapes above. There were those days where I woke up with an agenda, but by the end all I did was sit under a tree and read a book and I was perfectly okay with it.
Now the days are darker, colors dimmer and books less enjoyable. It’s like the world has been cast under some monochromatic spell that leaves the old way of life as just a distant memory. It’s as if the vibrant nature of life has been ripped from my grasp. No matter what I do, it doesn’t seem to come back.
I would give anything just to experience life like I once did. The touch of the grass on my bare feet or just – goddammit, I could give an endless number of examples, but all they do is remind me of the joy that I don’t have. I don’t experience the pleasures that I used to love.
If I could see everything the way that I once did, then it wouldn’t feel so empty. My life wouldn’t feel so dull. It would go back to a time when it all made sense to me. I would do anything just to see the blue of the sky or the green of the grass. Please someone, let me feel like I used to.
I got the idea for this while watching Evil Genius on Netflix. I have quite an active imagination so this short was written from the perspective of genuine fear that someone was constantly watching me, but as I wrote it, it took on a kind of mystical form.
Whether I’m showering, sleeping, reading or eating, anytime I blink, I stare into the deep, dark, endless abyss of her black, unloving eyes. I see hatred that has been brought on by years of neglect, misunderstanding and hatred that cuts deeper than the sharpest blade. The unblinking focus gives me chills. She wants to do damage to someone – anyone that will be terrified and resent her, because those are the emotions that she feeds from.
I open the shower curtain and before I dry my face, I shake my head to make sure she’s not standing in the doorway waiting for me. I dry off quickly because I know that it would only take her one second to pounce and change me to a state of rigor mortis. She could be anywhere, real or fake, causing entirely real fear. The eyes are the worst. She could be holding a knife and want to skin me alive, but the genuine nothingness in her eyes signaling only the worst intent is really what causes fear… and gives her enough to feed off of for months.
Falling asleep is a chore. The sweet, relaxing feeling of waking up in the morning, well-rested after eight hours of sleep is no more. I can’t fall asleep because I see her. I don’t dream happy thoughts because I see her. I wake up and before I can have the resuscitating powers of coffee, I must check every room of my house to know that I’m alone. By the time I get coffee started, twenty minutes after I wake up, the paranoia has driven me to a state of exhaustion. The fear it drives causes an eight-hour work day before I have to go in for my eight-hour work day.
She’s not real. I don’t know why the paranoia drives me. It’s maddening. Reading is impossible. My focus is split between the pages and the occasional movement that my eyes and brain trick me with. Sometimes when I stare back to the pages, the eyes appear and stare back at me. They hold their gaze and watch as I begin to panic, rubbing my eyes repeatedly to make sure that they are fake. They aren’t there but they feel so real.
Eating has turned to a stage of weakness. I won’t let myself get lost in my taste buds because the second I close the eyes on the back of my head is when the other one’s strike. All food tastes the same, a mix of blandness and hideous textures. Chewing tires my jaw like never before. I’m in a state of insatiable hunger. When I put the dishes in the sink, I see the eyes in the drain, still unblinking, still watching.
Her shape, size and appearance mean nothing. She could be the most beautiful woman or the most hideous. No matter the aesthetics, I stare only into the portals of insanity. She won’t leave me alone. When I speak with her, she doesn’t respond. She’s watching my every move. Her eyes tell all. She’s pure evil.
You know, there are more thoughts than you would think that go into suicide. No one will ever need to talk me out of it because of the fears that I have that keep me from it.
What if I try to hang myself and the rope snaps? I don’t want to be a vegetable for the rest of my hopefully short life. If I try to shoot myself and I live, then what’s the point? If I can’t kill myself correctly then I might as well just live out the rest of my time hiding in my room. Can you imagine how painful it would be to shoot yourself in the head and live? Imagine jumping off a building and living. I’d be more machine than human at that point. Then I’d want to die, and I wouldn’t be able to go through metal detectors.
There are so many other ways to kill myself that I’ve thought about. Jumping into traffic, driving off a cliff, overdosing on pills, drinking myself into a coma, but never drowning. I hate water. I pity anyone that drowns. There is no guarantee that any of these will work.
So, let’s pretend, best-case scenario, that the first time I tried to kill myself, it did work… then what? I’m not a particularly religious person, but I’m not an atheist. What if there is no afterlife. That’s inherently terrifying because once you’re dead, that’s it: Done, gone, forgotten. That shouldn’t scare me if I’m thinking about suicide, but it does. The whole point of killing myself is that this life is garbage and not doing for me what I wish it would. But if there is no afterlife, am I really getting what I want? It wouldn’t be better. It would just be over. Sure, if it’s over, then it’s better because I’m not dealing with it… but is that really what I want?
That doesn’t even address the fact of if there is an afterlife! What if Heaven and Hell are real? What if there is a divine judge who decides if I belong in Heaven or Hell, and he says Heaven? If I go to Heaven, it has to be great, right? But what if it’s not? If I die and go to Heaven, there is a chance that my mind hasn’t changed and I’m still just as depressed and suicidal there, too. Then where would I go if I kill myself? Absolutely nowhere, that’s where. I’d be stuck in the same place with the same mind and the same terrible existence.
And what if God tells me to go to Hell? If it’s what everyone says it is, then it’ll be miserable. A life in fire or ice, depending on what book you read; torture regardless of which one it turns out to be. I’ve often thought that Hell would be different, potentially better than Heaven. I know that by saying that, I’m going to Hell for sure, but think about it. Satan was only sent to Hell because he thought he was better than God, but if he thought that, wouldn’t he have something to show for it? He’d be powerful too, and I bet he would want Hell to be equal to, if not better than Heaven, so that he could show that he’s better than God. Sure, criminals of all shapes and sizes would live there, but what are they going to do, kill me? I’d already be dead! It wouldn’t matter. Honestly, I bet the people down there would be more interesting than the ones in Heaven. But even with all of that, I’m sure I’d still be depressed, and I’d still want to die again, but you can only die once.
I don’t know what to do, but I’m sure I won’t be killing myself anytime soon. There is too much chance involved, and so many variables to account for. It’d be easier to just keep pushing through my mundane, depressing life and hope it gets better. Then at the very least I wouldn’t be putting my existence in the hands of so many uncertainties.
Depending on the month, week, day, minute and second, I love and/or hate myself. Sometimes I view my actions as though I’m a god on this mortal planet (or like how Kanye views Kanye) while other times I see myself as this scum that doesn’t deserve to live because I’m contributing nothing to the world.
Scott McIloveyou and Scott McIhateyou
I love you with all my heart. Anytime I talk to you, I get a tinge of happiness and my heart leaps. Every part of me gets a little giddy and it feels like I deserve to be appreciated. I’ve never felt like I should be appreciated before.
I can’t be loved. I’m too much of an emotional train wreck. I should stay in my head for as long as I can do that I don’t subject anyone else to the sadistic insanity that I think. If I don’t tell a soul, then I’m not a burden to anyone. No one cares enough to find out what’s going on inside my head.
When you do though, it’s like you’ve dropped antidote into a venom. The spiraling thoughts unwind into a single thread of understanding and ease. It makes the insanity feel like normalcy and the cries for help turn to cries of thanks.
Why do you do it? I don’t deserve the patience and unconditional love that you provide. All I do is cause you the same confusion, pain and sadness that I cause myself. I wish I could help you like you help me, but all I do is act like an angry toddler who can’t communicate their words. I can’t seem to stop drowning in my thoughts and I don’t want to drag you to the depths with me.
Yet you hold on like a life jacket and I bob down a river of uncertainty that feels much less scary and dangerous with you. The waves feel soothing instead of sickening and the creatures below seem beautiful instead of threatening.
I don’t think I can be part of something bigger. I’m emotionally weak. I’m physically exhausted. I’m constantly scared of the world around me.
I am constantly trying to be better for you… and me.
I struggle every day to be happy. It’s not easy for me. Some days it gets really hard; hard to the point where suicide fills every second of thought. On other days it’s not so bad. I only think about suicide maybe… maybe a dozen times. Twelve isn’t so bad when it’s compared to the worst days, but it’s still not fun.
I’d give anything in the world to be happy. I envy people with blissful ignorance or a happy-go-lucky personality. I see it and I want it. If I could be happy without any effort, then I would but that’s not an option. It hasn’t been an option since the eighth grade and it won’t be an option for the rest of my life. This is just something I deal with now. I am perpetually struggling with depression and it sucks.
But if I could take an ounce of suffering from someone else and stack it on the struggles that I already have, I would do it without a second thought. I don’t like the fact that I can’t easily be happy. I don’t like how much effort I have to put in, but if I could take some of that struggle from you then I would. I’ve made it pretty far in my life so far. Every day is a struggle, but I’ll keep struggling until natural causes finish me off because if I take my own life, I’m putting my burden on my loved ones and I couldn’t do that to them.
I’m usually the kind of person that you either love or hate. There’s not usually an in between and sometimes I feel like even the people that love me, hate me too. I guess it’s a self-esteem thing but whatever the cause, I almost always feel like I’m burdening someone.
I feel like I can do nothing but hurt you. The words that I use always feel pretentious and sarcastic, while the intent behind them isn’t meant to be, but even when I speak in a way that feels natural to me, the words ring like the bullets of a Gatling gun. They tear your flesh away until you’re just tattered muscle and decaying bone. I feel the occasional bullet ricochet in my mouth when it fails to exit and hurt you. My teeth clatter and my gums bleed but taking the words and bottling them up is much more favorable than letting them out to assault you in the most heinous of ways.
The Riddler’s rhymes hurt less than the strings of words that I put together. I say that I’m just speaking my mind, but instead, it feels like I’m purposely and carefully choosing the exact words that will make you feel worse. Sticks and stones may hurt your bones, and I promise my words cut worse than glass. I don’t try to be a bad guy, yet I have this impeccable ability to make others hate me.
I’m the kind of guy that, if I turned up dead by the hands of some lunatic because I didn’t know when to shut up, no one would be surprised. I’m also the kind of guy who, if I did turn up dead, I’m sure only a select few would care… but even then, they’d get over it. The reason that death is such an appealing thought is because no matter what anyone says, I’ll always feel like people would be better off without me. My words are bullets and you are a paper target. I may be a bad shot, but I’ll get a bullseye eventually.
I often wish that I was either a mute or just plain dumb. It’d be easier than dealing with trying to fit into the pre-molded world around me. If I never spoke, sure I’d be stuck with my own thoughts and most certainly spiral into an uncaring abyss of suicidal thoughts, but at least I wouldn’t drag anyone else down. I’m the Captain Ahab to my depression and I don’t know who is going to overtake who first. If I was dumber, I wouldn’t care so much about the delicately constructed social interactions that I take part in every day. When a conversation ended, I’d be able to move on and I wouldn’t even know if I insulted them in the first place. Life would be so much easier if I could find a way to help and heal with my words instead of mowing down crowds at a time. That may not make me happy, but I’d certainly feel better about myself.
A lot of terrible things happen every day. My stomach randomly started rebelling against ice cream, I need to replace a part in my toilet so that it won’t run infinitely and sometimes people find the only thing that they can do to feel better is some heinous stuff that hurts the ones that they love and some that they don’t even know. People who commit disturbing acts of violence are looked at with only eyes of hate, and although I understand why, they’re human too and probably feel worse inside than anyone that I’ve ever met.
Imagine your friend, your mom, your dad or your sibling. Imagine your son or daughter or your significant other. All the people that you respect and love. People that you would sacrifice your own life to help if they needed it. Imagine what would happen if they snapped.
What if your loved one brought a loaded gun to a school? What if they ran a car through a crowded sidewalk? What if they made a bomb and took it to a stadium?
At the end of the day, you’d know that they did something wrong. You’d know that they harmed innocent people. But you’d still love them. You would just wish that it never happened.
You would see the entire world turn against the person that you love. People that have never met them, full of hate and nothing else. The tragedy is replayed over and over on every form of media, but it’s only noise and hate. Everyone wants a change, but a solution is never reached. All that’s passed around are false promises of change.
No one is happy about your loved one’s actions and you are no exception. The difference is that, unlike every other loud opinion, you truly want real change. You want to make it so that this kind of incident can never happen again…but no one listens. Everyone just wants to spread hate that’s veiled in cheap, unfeeling support for the victims.
You’d know more than anyone that no matter what words are spoken, what laws are proposed and what patriotism is evoked. You’d know more than anyone that no matter what, it’ll happen again.
Unfortunately, all you can do is wait. Wait for when the time comes again – and it will come again – then you could lend your hand to people whose loved ones have also snapped… because you’d remember a time when no one was there for you.
You look and search and wait and crave. It’s amazing how much weight you give the unseen drive for something you’ve never felt or experienced. Everything, and I mean everything, revolves around this unsung emotion, one that avoids you like the people that you push yourself away from.
You work day in and day out and day in and day out. Some days it seems like its almost within reach, but when you try to touch it, the fear and anxiety and vulnerability push it farther and farther away. Instead of pursuing this flavor of life, you sit and wait impatiently for it to caress your lonely, longing skin.
The feeling that you know you want, the feeling that you have been waiting for, will appear again. Next time it comes, you’ll be ready for it. You won’t let it slip through your fingertips again. But when it arrives, it bounces off of the stone-cold roughness of your mind. It tries so hard to come back, but when you don’t know how long it will stay or how long it will gift you with its presence or how long you will feel that feeling that you have been waiting for, it’s so much easier to just push it away, instead of accepting it’s warm embrace.
But then you’re left alone. You’ve pushed away everyone and everything that you care about, searching instead for a feeling that you believe will never come. Watching your days pass you by, instead of experiencing the life that you have been gifted.
Stop and smell the roses. Okay, I’ll give it a shot. Everyone tells me that I move too fast whether they’re using the colloquialism or not, but they’re always saying the same thing. I haven’t stopped to smell flowers in a long time. I know I’m not supposed to take it literally, but I don’t know what I would do to relax if it wasn’t smelling roses.
They’re red. I knew that, but they’re red. I guess I haven’t really observed how red they are, but they’re red. I’ve seen red before. I don’t think that because it’s a flower, it immediately makes it peaceful. The bush itself is green, and the stems and thorns are green, too. I guess it’s a slightly different green, but it’s still just green.
This seems like a waste of time.
The sounds are unique, but unique doesn’t always mean good. There are birds chirping and bugs buzzing. The breeze rustles leaves. I guess that sounds okay. A dog just barked somewhere.
I don’t get it.
The breeze feels good. I was a bit sweaty before. It’s pretty hot out today so it’s pretty nice. The actual leaves feel smooth and glossy. The petals feel fragile and a bit like linen or silk. The thorns hurt but that’s obvious.
I definitely don’t get it.
The rose’s smell like – like some shitty candle! They smell like a fucking bathroom air freshener. What was the point of this? Slow down and smell the roses? Why! They smell like shit! God, I wasted so much time. If I thought I could drive my face into these thorns hard enough to die I would do it right now.