Before I Go

Chapter 19- An Empty Day

Warning: This chapter contains cutting. Reader discretion is advised.

I missed school yesterday for the first time this school year. I didn't really have much choice in the matter, as I was drowning in an empty day.

I stayed in bed, physically unable to move for most of the day. If I'm honest, I don't even know if I blinked--that's a function my body usually takes care of without me having to tell it to. But on an empty day, sometimes I can't even do that. Even breathing is a chore, an unachievable task that should come naturally to me, but my own body fights against even the slightest life-sustaining requirements.

My mother was obviously displeased when she came into my room at lunchtime to collect my dirty laundry, only to find me still in the same position I was when she attempted to wake me for school in the morning. Even if I could barely manage to look at her, I could tell she was upset. As much as I wanted to care about how terrible I was making my mom feel, I simply couldn't; I couldn't do anything at all. Although I had stayed in bed all that time, I doubt I had gotten any sleep, as that is occasionally too much to accomplish on an empty day, but I hadn't moved a single inch. I remained curled into my blankets with my face in the pillow until I was literally forced from the bed. My mom probably tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear her; I couldn't hear a single thing. My brain and body were busy doing nothing. Busy being empty.

I hate not being able to function.

It was past dinnertime when I'd finally gotten on my feet, my body feeling weaker than ever and my head wholly disoriented. I wouldn't have even bothered to get up at all if my mother hadn't been so insistent. Her voice was garbled like the teacher in that cartoon I used to watch when I was a kid. You know, the one where you can physically hear the adults speaking, but there's no way you'd ever be able to understand what they're actually saying. I barely recognized the fact that the noise I was hearing was actually her voice and that I was supposed to be listening to her. Her words were so muffled, and her voice was faint to my ears, although the expression on her face implied that she was probably yelling.

I guess I just hadn't gotten the memo.

There was nothing I could do about it, though. I couldn't react, respond, or do anything but sway unsteadily on my feet that I could hardly feel as my mom led me to the desk. She demanded that I try to get some food down, setting a plate before me before leaving the room. It took all of the strength in my body to sit upright on the chair; I'm not even sure how I managed to lift the fork to my mouth. The few bites that actually made it past my lips took an exaggeratedly long time and more concentration than I could gather at the time to chew and swallow. I'm pretty sure Mom was beyond irritated with me when she returned later to find me staring blankly at the plate of mostly untouched food.

It wasn't my fault, though.

On an empty day, everything just feels so... heavy. Like, I can't get out of bed because an overbearing weight is pressing down on me. I can barely lift my arm because it's too heavy. It's weighed down by an invisible force, one that I can't see, but I know it's there. It's there, and it's suffocating me. Enveloping me. Controlling me.

Sometimes I can't breathe because my chest feels heavy, too.

It's not a nice feeling.

And when the empty day is finally over, I feel... overwhelmed. I'm rampaged by emotions my brain wouldn't allow me to feel during the empty day. They all just come crashing into me at once; it's like I'm drowning. An empty day is almost always followed by a bad day... in fact, I don't think I've ever experienced anything different.

So today, I'm drowning. I'm struggling to breathe in the mass of unfelt emotions from yesterday, to keep my head above the water that is literally everything and nothing at the same time. I'm flailing about in a sea of monotony, heaviness, of pain. Of emptiness, self-hatred, and anxiety. I'm choking on it as it lodges itself in my throat, constricts my chest, and stops my heart.

I give in to it, even if I wish I wouldn't.

I can't stop myself.

But feeling something is better than feeling nothing at all.

Unfortunately, the only relief I've ever been able to find so far comes in the form of mutilation. Self-destruction. Calmness washes over me as I sink the razor blade into my flesh and watch the red liquid run out. I feel relieved of... well, everything. It's like the overwhelming emotions just dissipate into the air, vanishing almost entirely as the silver blade slashes across my flesh. Every cut is like a breath, filling my lungs with the oxygen the emptiness had deprived them of.

I drag the razor across my thigh again, staring as the blood runs down my leg and puddles onto the tiled bathroom floor. My eyes wander over the expanse of marred skin there, the many scars serving as evidence of my weakness. Tears well up quickly as a voice in my mind whispers how incredibly screwed up this is. How much of a mess I am.

My hand trembles as it lifts the blade one more time, shakily joining it to the crimson-stained flesh for another strike. This one is slower, possibly because of my loss of energy, or maybe I'm simply savoring the sense of peace that has now filled me; I don't really know.

And I suppose that it doesn't matter, either.

I close my eyes and rest my head back on the wall behind me, hoping for no more empty days. The tears that spill down my cheeks are silent prayers for better days to come, unspoken words of hope that my heart yearns for someone to hear.