TW: SH
"Why?"
It's one of the biggest questions we could ask ourselves.
I ask myself why a lot, but not in the ways you might think.
I tend to ask myself, Why do I feel this way? Why did I do this to myself? Why won't it stop? Why? Why? Why?
Why, me?
Majority of my life, I'd ask myself things like this but never quite reach the answer. Deep down I knew I'd never find it, but I kept asking and searching.
Until one day, the asking and the searching just... stopped.
Time stopped.
I stopped.
I can't fully say I regret what I've done, because I achieved my goal. The asking and the searching did in fact stop. However, instead of asking myself why, I've begun asking myself, what.
What would've happened if I spoke up? What about my friends and family? What about my future? What about my life?
But the question that always leaves me crawling in my skin is,
What. Have. I. Done?
Like I said before, I can't say I fully regret it, but I do regret the impact it's had. My friends still call, waiting for me to answer, only to be disappointed with an automated voice message.
My parents lay in my bed, hugging my teddy bear and crying most of the day. I've never seen my father cry, until now. My mother holds my sweater close to her, sobbing into the sleeves. I remember that sweater.
All the pain hidden behind the sleeves. Even in the hottest of weather, I still wore it. Hiding. I've done a lot of hiding. I would hide behind bracelets stacked upon one another, behind long sleeves of whatever article of clothing I could find.
The thought of acknowledging what I've done, hurts more than the cuts ever could.
As I watch my father place my final words in an emerald green bottle, along with white and yellow flowers, I can't help but wallow in self-pity.
This is my fault.
Me.
I did this.
I caused this.
He caps the bottle and leans over the stream behind our home. He dips his hand in the fast flowing water and gently places the bottle in it.
He sobs as the final piece of my existence floats away.
Now here I am.
Nonexistent.
To be forgotten.
An unanswered question.
I am simply memories in a beer bottle.
YOU ARE READING
Stories, Essays, and Poems.
Short StoryAll of these are written by me. These were written during moments in my life when writing helped me the most. Some are about anxiety, the recent passing of my dog, dealing with grief, and other issues I have faced in my life.
