The Way Out
Drawing on paper stopped making me feel better. Better felt just like nothing. I could not make myself feel anything. I began to draw on my hand. With a sharp pen. There was black ink at first, then red mixed with the chemical pigments.
Poisonous, I thought. Maybe I could feel something. There was a searing pain. But when it faded and the picture washed off over the days, there was nothing again.
There was only so much I could draw on myself before someone noticed. When it was noticed, there was nothing to feel. I was not allowed to feel that anymore. Because it was killing me. I wanted to know how they knew I was still alive.
The counsellor was not interested in telling me. She wanted me to talk, but I had nothing to say. I would say something, but it was too late. The words were gone. The feelings were gone. I was gone.
And I only realised that I was gone because she asked me to say something. Here was a voice who wanted to hear mine. Someone whose eyes were not looking at the clock. She had a pass that allowed me to skip class. The room had air-con. There were toys on the table. A pretty doll too, but not the plastic kinds. It was porcelain and fragile. But it had kind eyes.
Say something, I told myself.
I told her I would not draw on my arm again.
She smiled. I wanted to see the smile again. But that was the last time I received that pass.
No, I did keep my promise. I did not draw on my arm.