(the last thoughts of a lost cause)
— a spin-off of Memoir.
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the First
He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.
Friedrich Nietzche said that. I don’t know anything about him, other than the name, and the saying, although I’m convinced that he was a brave man for saying such a thing - a learned, wise, brave man.
Holding that assumption in mind, it sounds almost contradictory to say that he’s the one who convinced me to die.
the Second
I’ll categorise my death for you.
It won’t be the easiest thing to do; there isn’t really a specific period of time, or a steady line of thought. The fall all happened in bursts of moments — huge explosions creating nothing and destroying only possibilities, with hollow cavities left in the spaces in between. I remember I was left gripping at straws after every single one.
I don’t know how or why it happened like it did, but by the end of my life, each day was little more than waiting for the next explosion; that, and paranoia of what it would bring.
The doctors called the explosions ‘relapses’ and the spaces in between ‘recovery’. But I find it best to ignore doctors and the bullshit they spout.
They said I’d get better.
the Third
The first explosion happened when I was four or five years old, I think.
I was in bed, aware of a thirst that was clawing up my throat and leaving sawdust in its wake. The duvet felt stuffy and suffocating, my legs cocooned and claustrophobia started taking its hold.
My younger sister whispered my name across the metre of carpet that separated our beds. I ignored her, too uncomfortable to care.
“What is it?” she insisted.
“I want water.”
I heard shuffling, blankets being pushed away, a little body sitting up. “But you can’t have any,” she murmured, voicing my thoughts. We weren’t allowed to leave our beds.
“But I’m really thirsty,” I complained to her, mimicking her movements and sitting up too.
“Mum will get angry if you go downstairs.” All I could see of her was the gleam of her eyes in the silhouette she cast over the wall.
“I know. She already got angry with me today,” I told her.
There was a slight creak outside our closed bedroom door. My eyes widened, and I leapt for my pillow as my sister did for hers, both of us holding our breath and feigning sleep.
But the thirst was still there.
After what felt like an hour, I sat up again and squinted down at the shadow on the other bed. “I’m gonna go,” I whispered.
She ignored me, still pretending.
I gently placed my bare feet on the carpet, and stood up, looking out for any signs that someone outside the room had noticed.
The first few steps were hard, but once I’d opened the bedroom door and crept across the landing, I was sure I could get away with it. Mum must have fallen asleep.
A bit more relaxed, I gripped the banister and went down the stairs, careful to step at the edges of the ones I knew creaked. I was in the kitchen before I knew it.
Reaching up, I searched for the plastic cup that was mine, but it wasn’t on the drying rack beside the sink where it usually was. I started to panic; how was I to drink without my cup?
“Sister?”
My gaze whipped to the kitchen entrance, terrified that I was caught. It was an irrational fear, as not only was it not my mother’s voice, but there was only one person in the world who called me that.
“Dina?” I whispered angrily. “What are you doing down here?”
She looked at me, her eyes wide, her curly hair in the two high bunches Mum had made that morning; she was short for a four year old and I was hyperaware of this as her eyes followed me. Her teddy was clutched tightly in one hand, its snout grazing the floor.
“Dina, go upstairs!” I hissed, knowing that if both of us were caught, I'd get blamed.
She shook her head vehemently. “I was scared. Why aren’t you drinking?”
“I can’t find my glass.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not on the table.”
Her eyes landed on the drying rack and sure enough, I was right. “Mine is.”
I ignored her, watching as she walked over to me. “You can use mine,” she whispered, standing on her tip-toes and trying to reach the cup. She was too short but I wasn't, so I got it for her.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, and smiled at me.
“Here you g-”
“What are you girls doing!?” The angry voice was so sudden that the cup slipped from Dina’s fingers and clattered to the floor, sounding like a gunshot atter our whispers. We both looked up to see Mum, looking livid.
“I- We were-”
“I was thirsty!”
“Yeah?” Mum sounded furious; she flicked the switch to turn on the lights in the kitchen. I saw her standing In the doorway, hands on hips, her night suit scrunching up at the shoulders.
She stormed towards me, her hand reaching out and grabbing my wrist. “I’ll teach you to be thirsty.”
Dina had started crying, and I could hear her whimpers intensify as Mum’s grip around our wrists tightened painfully.
She yanked us out of the kitchen, leaving the light on, and dragged us to the living room, where she snapped at us to wait for her.
As soon as she left the room I glanced at Dina, whose crying got louder with each passing second. “Shut up, Dina, it’s all your fault! What did you have to come down for? Now we’re gonna get hit so hard, all thanks to you!”
She cried harder, and looked up at me through her tears. “I won’t get in trouble, will I?”
One look at her red face, wet and scared, smothered my anger instantly. “No. No, I won’t let you. I’ll tell her it was my fault, you can go to back to bed, okay?”
She nodded but didn’t stop crying.
“Now stop that, or you will get in trouble,” I murmured to her. She tried to, but she’d caught the hiccups by now.
A light clatter came from the kitchen, and the light was switched off. Mum came back in the room, and I saw a wooden cooking spoon in her hands. The sharp ice of fear jolted through me.
Without warning, Mum grabbed Dina’s hair and pulled. Dina’s sob turned into scream as her hair was pulled so hard her feet almost left the ground.
“Mum, Mum! No, stop it!” My voice was shrill as I ran to her and started pulling on her arm. “It was me, I made her come down, Mum, please!”
Behind me, I heard the dull thump of the wooden spoon on flesh, and Dina cried out again. My voice climbed an octave as I tugged at her with all my might. “Stop it, Mum, stop it!”
She glared down at me, but let go of my sister, who fell to the ground with a muffled sob.
A sudden pain flared in my arm and I heard more than saw the cooking spoon strike me. I shrieked a little, my head snapping up.
“I’m so sorry, Mum-" thump "-I’m so sorry, please-” thump "-I won’t do it again, I’m sorry!” I sobbed. Her hand found its way to my hair, and tightened. I could feel the roots being pulled away from my scalp as she dragged me up so I was on my very tip-toes.
“I’ll teach you what happens when you don’t do as I say,” she spat at me, and threw me so hard I stumbled into the nearby sofa.
I cried into my hands, trying to stop the hot pain flaring in my scalp. I saw Mum grab Dina's arm through the gap in my fingers, I watched silently as she twisted and twisted, and it was all I could do to scrunch my eyes shut as a sickening crunch cut off Dina’s scream.
the Fourth
That was the day Mum broke Dina's arm. We told the hospital she fell down the stairs, that she was ever so clumsy (and I was too scared to tell them anything else—).
(—and that's where I learned to lie.)
I still don't know why Mum had such a bad temper. She just blew up sometimes — sometimes, it was just like any other mother, and we'd get a telling off and a reprimanding look. But other times, when it was just us in the house (no Dad, he was never around) she would become scary.
You should know that Dina got the worst of it, and I never ever stepped in. And my little sister never forgave me for that — not then, not now, not ever. She actually moved out when she was fifteen, two years after Mum
I'm really proud of her, because she's doing so well for herself. So much better than the bigger sister who let Mum abuse her.
Us— I want to say, but if Dina got the worst of it, am I allowed to say it hurt me as well?
And what of me? Mum's dead, and Dina's far away. What's happening with me right now? Do you really wanna know?
It doesn't matter. In three hours, I won't be here anyway. In three days, I'll be in the ground.
'Six feet under'.
the Fifth
It would be nice if I could leave behind someone who would miss me — someone who would stand by my grave and cry their lonely little eyes out, someone who wouldn't want to wake up again because I'm no longer around, someone who I could really really hurt by leaving.
But that's not the case. So sad.
I did fall in love once. It was a strange, obsessive romance. Addictive, hard to hold, impossible to let go of. It destroyed me. Or rather... it destroyed who I once was. Who I could have been. It destroyed the hope of a happy girl, and replaced her with who you're listening to right now.
Who was this guy, you ask? Who could change a girl so much? I'll tell you.
The mirror.
I fell in love with hating myself.
the Sixth
I would have waited for hope, but I don't even know what that means any more.
I never wanted to be saved. I never wanted it. Never.
Depression? What an ignorant word. That's not what this was. It wasn't 'depression'. It was hell.
the Seventh
Let the bastards weep.
I hope when they're burying me, their hearts burn.
Bye bye, Dad. Bye, Dina. See you soon, Mum.
Bye bye, mirror. Bye bye, tears. Bye bye, doctors with your empty promises. Bye bye, hurt. Bye bye, pain. Bye bye, concious thought.
Bye bye, sky.
the Eighth
Don't shout at me about my lost future, because this is my happy ending. There's a better adventure waiting for me, and it's at the bottom of this bottle of bleach.
Bye bye.
