The Beast I Am

Before

I don't want to be here anymore.

A blankness filled my head as I gazed down the street, watching the cars hit water-filled potholes fast enough to buckle. Each splash sparkling as it descended onto the cracked pavement. The rain was thunderous on the metal alcove but not enough to drown my thoughts.

The thought.

It was something that trickled about my brain every now and again. Like a fleeting song lyric that will come and go, not enough to hum, but often enough for it to linger.

You're not needed here. End the pain.

I was tired.

I took a wide step to the left as the groan of over-rusted metal warned me of its potential collapse. Dumping a few gallons onto the broken bench next to me.

I needed to get out of this miserable fucking place.

Look, I get it. Everyone's a little mentally ill.

My gut twisted at the thought, my hands joining to white-knuckle the inside of my damp jacket. It was a rhetoric that I had convinced myself was reason enough to stop taking my two peach capsules, twice a day. That, and the cost.

Our talks had become stale, shallow, the same thing time and time again, but, never the whole truth. I was just so tired; and they never quite understood that. Having to restart every four months when my shitty healthcare couldn't cover them any longer, right as we got to somewhere that felt like progress. But honestly, I wasn't ready for it to totally leave me.

The emptiness.

After all this time, it felt like a bond stronger than any other. At least, that's the thought Therapist #3 planted before she took my own fantasies a little too close to heart and decided to test one of my plans out herself. It was a shame, this new one just repeated the same phrase with each syllable I fought to leave my lips.

"I can't help you, if you don't let me help you."

It was exasperating to explain that I was trying. That I had been trying so hard for so long, that it felt like trying was all I could do.

Another car slapped the pavement with its bearings in a loud clank, echoing against the squeal of the bus brakes, shaking me from my thoughts.

Tonight, I was doing, not trying. I was sick of trying and sick of being sick.

Terry looked over to me impatiently waiting for me to board, my pockets heavy with my fare for the evening. He grunted a 'hey,' more than most people got. Sausage fingers blocking the slot for my coins to slip through, pointing wordlessly to the crude 'out of order' sign plastered on the front.

"Seriously? Can't I just give it to you? And you can take it back to the station or wherever you go?"

He shrugged, the words not matching his eyes. "Sorry, rules is rules."

I glared at the touch-to-pay, my teeth squeaking as I did the math in my head to see if this would put me over for the second time this month. If it would even approve the fare. Groaning as I stepped into a puddle against the curb, my non-slip loafers quickly filling with water.

"Awesome." The bus whined as it pulled away, leaving me behind to sulk in peace. The crack of lightning splitting the sky in two; I shivered as the shadows grew longer, even for just a fraction of a second, slipping my keys between my fingers as I started the long trudge home.

I was about 20 minutes away from my block when I got the call from my boss. Something I swiftly let go to voicemail. I felt like a ghost whenever I walked into that building, haunting the people around me. And for that I was often the first to be sent home once labor was cut. I didn't blame them; I knew the food service industry and was still in it 12 years later, despite my attempts to leave. The rain was lightening up, and it felt like I was dripping on the sidewalk more than the sky. My steps rippling moon-glowing puddles in my path.