My short story titled “I lie”

Blog, sad, Uncategorized, writing

I curl myself into a ball on the bathroom floor, pulling my knees tightly to my chest. I don’t cry, or sniffle. The only sound is the small breaths I take, frequent and shallow. It seems no matter how hard I try, I can never take a deep breath. My body is constantly in a state of hyperactivity. I can never get enough oxygen.
The small carpet beneath the sink is purple and it scratches against my cheek with its course fibers. If I look forward I can see where my sister dropped a bottle of nail polish years ago, a brilliant shade of red is splashed over the cupboard door in an arc. The red reminds me of passion and how I don’t have any.
I shut my eyes. Why is it so hard to be happy? I try to be, and maybe sometimes I experience a glimpse of happiness, but it disappears like fog in the sunlight. I thought that if I could fake happiness long enough I might start to believe my own lie. But it seems this dark pit that grows in front of me has creeped around behind me. If I take one more step in either direction, I’m going to fall in.
Staring down into the endless black has become routine, expected. I imagine what it’s like to fall in. Will it hurt? Will it be over quickly? Before I can think too far into it a voice will call over my shoulder, asking me to come watch t.v. or come hang out. I step back from the edge and glance back once before rejoining the world.
Sometime it seems like my mind and my body are two separate beings floating separately in space, and both of them turn against my soul. They berate it like school yard bullies. You’re not strong enough for this, you should just give up, no one cares about you, you have no friends, you need to be scared of everything, they say. You begin to take those insecurities to heart and question every good thing that happens to you. Because nothing good can happy to you, you don’t deserve it.
You praise yourself for becoming content with your appearance, but little did you know, that was the easy part. The hard part is fighting yourself, the parts you can’t see, but can feel completely. The wounds cut deeper than anything else. They’re self-inflected. But they don’t feel that way. Because you’re not the kind of person that hurts themselves. Unfortunately, your mind doesn’t care. It doesn’t pick favourites.
You begin to walk that all too familiar dark path. I can’t take this anymore. I’m alone. No one will really miss me. I should just—
A knock on the door jars me out of my thoughts.                                                                                
“Are you okay in there?” my sister asks.
I cringe for a second, all my muscles tensing. I push up from the floor and work to sound relaxed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
I lie to my sister. I’m not fine. I’ve never been fine. But she doesn’t need to know that.


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