kaerimichirami

[kaerimichirami]

the future beckons

Falling into the emptiness of my being, I reckon my failure. The unmet expectations, the loud noises from afar—it all bursts into my face as I stare at my sly shadow, wondering how I’ve managed to keep it. They say counting the days only makes the wait longer, but what am I supposed to do? Trapped in this flash, with the surrounding flashing lights ready to attack, I hold the anger to my chest, babying it and begging for an answer. For freedom, for anything, but I am unable to move, as I am stuck to me.

The shadow laughs at me, oh-so derisive, and, deep down, it pities me, which seems worse. Am I only that? So pitiful a mere shadow can’t help itself but find me a poor little creature. It reeks of something I am unable to describe, but it drives me so mad, as if I was drowning in my own stupidity.

Stupid. How could I be anything but stupid? A creature who struggles to identify itself. Who cannot say "I" but to complain, who treats life like a chore and every chore like death, who treats its senses as traitors, and who doesn’t welcome anyone inside its cage?

Bent, torn, broken. It still reeks of it. I walk slowly with my wounded feet, trying to search for whatever ignites that feeling, but it is all the same, the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the poarch, the memories, the agony, the bedroom and the corridors.

That cunning shadow follows, even where there is no light; its fingers strum through my neck and hairline, and the feeling lingers for much longer. No matter what I do, it follows, or, maybe, me, in my pitiful stupidity, am the one following the shadow. But it mimics my every inch, and it gives me that unpleasant look, and it beckons me to once again stay with it.

I notice how we share those wounds, as it seems to limp like me. Does it hurt? Could it be that this tangle of damp sins hurts like I do? I could treat it, but whenever I try to touch the shadow, it disappears into thin air and then reappears behind me.

What a fool!I couldn’t be a light trick, not even from the most skilled man. It is, certainly, something poisonous, a curse, something useless to bear that only brings your demise, like the child I was to my poor mother. What laughs at me is nothing but the reflection how funny my misery is.

I can’t touch it, can’t get rid of it, can’t use it to help me, can’t even make it stop following me. I can’t feed it, can’t lull it, can’t put it in nice clothes, can’t give it a haircut, I can’t raise and love it as my own. It’s a part of me, or maybe it’s me, but it’s unlovable, as it’s the rest, and I can’t do anything but watch it succumb the day I do.

Too far for anyone to percieve me, still too close to hear their laughs and bring me to tears. Too lonely to even try not to be, and unable to go too far with these wounds and this thing following me. I used to hear the nasty comments about the way I walked and saw the moms mad at their own children pointing at me. And if I’m not a threat, the unknown shadow is scary on its own, following me and sentencing me to keep living this life.

I could try to escape, but it always finds a way to me, and, as I said… I can’t run or walk that far. I could stop drinking and eating, I could sleep less, and I could cut my throat right now, but I always keep looking at the same things and hearing the same things, and I never put an end to this.

It looks like they’re throwing a party next door. It surely sounds fun to everybody else, but I have this thing—this weight, these chains, this lack of everything—and this overwhelming power the shadow has on me. I can’t go. I can’t think of going. I can’t dream of going. I can’t. I don’t think I know where the keys are, and I need to sit down… and there’s the shadow, and everything else and everything else and everything else and everything else and everything else and everything else, and there’s my mother, and there’s my childhood, and there’s my age, and there’s my weak body, and there’s my dry lips, and there are my wounds, and there’s something that reeks, and there’s my bad vision, and, I said, there’s the shadow… and the wounds. And the living room, and the corridors, and the kitchen, and the porch, and the bathroom, and the attic, and the basement, and all that’s chained and hidden there; and there are the photos, and the mattress, and the tea cups, and the slice of pound cake, and there is so much I need to do, and I’m limping and my back hurts, and I can’t figure out who or what I am.

At this point, it must hear my thoughts. It laughs at me; it laughs at me crying. I feel like a child again, being laughed at and neglected, but at least the shadow didn’t bring me into this world. I wanted a moment of peace, but the shadow doesn’t understand this. I just wanted a small, very tiny, moment to look out, but the shadow doesn’t let me be. It could at least care for me. It could feed me, it could lull me, it could dress me, it could hold me tight, and it could console me, but the shadow doesn’t do anything but laugh at me or defy me. The shadow doesn’t do anything good for me. No one does. I don’t even do.

How many nights did she spend resenting, repenting me? How many days of those nine months did she wish to throw me up or to bleed me out? When did the shadow and I shared that space? When did I start limping? When did the noise start bothering me? It’s all still the living room, the photos, the corridor, the attic, no, not the attic. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to visit those days. I don’t want it.

I don’t want to live by the shadow, but I don’t want the party either. I want them to stop singing so loud… what life could they live that make them so happy? What could they be thanking? The sun? The food? The love? Then, I wish there was only night, that there was a flood or drought, and that all love dies and only their shadows remain. This is driving me crazy. I’m not loved, I’m chained, and there’s the attic, and the basement, and there’s that old man, and there’s what I’ve done and what I shouldn’t have, and there’s my dying passion and there’s my aborted future, and there are the days when I tried, and there are the moments when I was relieved, but now there is nothing else.

It’s me, the noise, the shadow, and what reeks. And I know what reeks. The shadow does. I need to end it, I need to end its filth, I need to end its madness, because it’s not the limp or the fucking porch, it’s the shadow, and it’s the noise, but when the sun comes they shall fall into their slumber, but the shadow will keep following me even if I’m drowning.

If I don’t end it, I will end it, and if I die doing it, then I can still claim victory. It reeked of its muck, but it will now reek of its blood. If I can’t slash my own throat, I will slash its. If I can’t be raised with love, I won’t even attempt to raise it. I will bring it to hell and if it comes back to life I will slaughter it once again. I will crush its dreams like it crushed mine.

It stops following me, and I can forget about the attic, the basement, the man, the child I was, the static, the reasons, the agonies, the punishments, the curses. It stops following me and then sun wakes up, putting everyone else to sleep. It stops following me and my limping stays, but my lips are soft and plump. It stops following me, and my bitterness becomes sweet. It stops following me and the living room is not the same anymore. It stops following me and I still won’t sing or celebrate, I still have nothing to take, I still can’t walk that far… but it has stopped following me.

[kaerimichirami]

Desire

Desire. Such things could be related to the dampest sins. To me, desire was nothing but soothing the achening. Carressing and hugging the oh-so stressed me. But that is more than just “love”. Desire goes beyond any kind of appreciation or esteem. Desire is flesh; it is chewing, gulping. Desire is, indeed, what comes from a damp sin. Desire is what makes me embarrassed about being watched; desire is what makes me beg to be watched. Desire is the contradiction of self, desire is the agony of life and death; and desire is the dark path that leads you to destruction. Desire comes in many forms, in many packages, in many fabrics, in many flavors, smells and textures. Desire comes for your demise, but what could be human if not desire? To want, to be unable to deny. To lay yourself to destiny, to indulge yourself. Denying your desires is denying yourself, but allowing them day after day is, truly, losing the sight of future. Still…Destruction is also part of existence. As much as one may deny it, desire is inevitable. Desire is what drives impulse, and impulse is what drives fun. Fun, surely, is what drives life. What kills you is what makes you want to live, and there is no life without a certain death. Desire is the ultimate challenge; desire is all of those little things that combust into the all-ending explosion. That is, undoubtedly, the beginning and begging of life, and so on, the beginning of self. The struggling reflection in the mirror, the flashing lights, and the scary background noises are all driven by nothing but desire and, consequently, the only thing that calls for death: life.

It doesn’t make me proud that my most beautiful pieces are made late at night, when I’m exhausted from the world and give in to my desires, which consume me until I’m dead. If I don’t give in during my meals, I’ll give in to a stranger in their bed, and if it’s not that, it’s on my shopping cart. It's clear how full of flaws we are. Not one piece of it makes sense, and there are people out there talking about how everything works in sync. It might be for a while, but everything collapses. Every body turns into a corpse, and every breath soon disappears into thin air, but desire, desire doesn’t give in. Desire knocks on your door, desire touches you all the ways you like, and desire fills up your heart or stomach with the next crap available. Desire is the end, but the start, to repeat myself and make it clear.

Only for today, because I deserve it, I’ve done so good, it’s been so tough, and I’ve been so sad, and everyone’s so mean to me, and it’s just this once and it won’t affect me at all, and it’s only this time I am allowing this, from this person, and it’s only this red and it’s only these blues, and I swear tomorrow I won’t feel. But I do. I feel it hitting me hard, so hard, and I cry from how crazily good fulfilling my desires feel. That, until it’s empty and I’m empty, and I now crave something else. Unaware that my own cravings crave me. They’ll eat my dead body, so slowly but so surely, they’ll lick the bone and fall on their backs exhausted from the meal they have been preparing for these many years, feeding me on them so they can feed on me. Ain’t I such a desirable meal?

[kaerimichirami]

帰り道 / kaerimichi　[PT 1]

It was raining a lot the day my parents brought me home for the first time, three days after the Friday I was born. I won't lie and say I think about it every time it rains, but occasionally, when it touches my shoulder, I remember I'm human. It slowly takes me back to many thoughts, and it eases the pain as much as it punches me again. So many things bring me to this state. A really good book. Tasty matcha latte. Air conditioning. Sometimes, a movie or a song. There's this type of melody... I, despite loving music having an extremely untrained ear, can't explain what or why, but this certain tune brings me back to myself. As if I forgot, somehow, that I exist. That I am. That I go and I come back. That I was born, and that I breathe, heavily or lightly. That I get goosebumps and that I feel the wind or the burning sun. When the raindrops touch my exposed skin or my scalp, or even when they fall directly into my glasses' lenses, and I'm suddenly unable to cross the street without wiping it off, I remember about myself. How do I even forget about it? I don't know. But I come back to my senses every two weeks or so. And I'm born again, and I'm brought home again, and I'm taking baby steps every two Mondays.

Doctors and experts will name it in various ways. And they'll shove pills down my throat. And I'll be, "Oh, I feel emptier now. Thank you, Sir." and then cry after the appointment because it is just so embarrassing that they've once again said I need to lose weight. But I could say it is so much more about others than about me. When I go back to my childhood or my teenage, and God forbid, because I'm only in my early twenties, I can point every single cause. They have many different names and appearances, different voices and talking styles, but I remember them oh-so perfectly, and I am somehow a result of their experiments. For years and even now, I've wondered if I'm, in fact, not human, but one of those bags boxers use to practice. Due to being this short, I think I'd be a punching pouch, rather than a full bag. But I'm there, hanging from the ceiling, and they go back home feeling less angry.

That anger, oh, it started growing inside of me. Sometimes it doesn't show, and I've spent so much time and money fixing it. But it comes, again, occasionally, and I'm met with myself again. In the mirror, I see someone that has been called a freak so many times. I still have this silly habit of covering both my sides with my hands, just to make my figure a little less jiggly and weird. But the stretch marks, my chest that isn't neither flat, nor perfectly positioned (it's a little down, frowning), and if I turn to my side I see my profile view, that sometimes makes me laugh. It's so... silly, I guess. My breasts fall, but my butt is up. Wearing any kind of pants, panties, shorts, and even dresses, is quite a challenge. It just doesn't stay in place. Also, it's troublesome to sit comfortably with this natural pillow. And it's not necessarily pretty, just so big that it's kind of off-putting. Not to talk about my womanhood, which I'd prefer to not have. If I could have been born without anything down there, but still being able to function normally, I guess I would be happier. And the legs I don't shave unless it's been over half a year, with knees that sometimes don't function properly and feet that are so tiny and still child-like, that weirdly, I can crack the bone of one foot, but not the other. And they hurt when I walk too much. If I go up again, my hair is so messy. It was supposed to be curly, but I did something wrong, and now it pretends to be straight like I did as a whole during my formative years. No, I guess I still am not out to many people. Haaa. I still do pretend. There are bags under my eyes that are quite pretty, actually, but just... eyes... My eyebrows are quite thick, and I don't mind it. I like flickering my eyelashes when I want to fall asleep, and, honestly, mascara makes me feel heavy. My ears, nothing to talk about them, but they hurt after wearing glasses + headphones all day. My nose is quite big, and I don't mind the size, but I feel embarrassed about the blackheads. My mouth is kinda cute, sometimes it looks like a little heart and my lips aren't extremely plump, but also not the thinnest thing. I kinda like it, but no matter what I do, lipstick never stays on. I think my lips are too moist. My teeth are quite wonky, my bite is not that perfect. I still haven't been able to have my wisdom teeth grow, and there's a lot of space between some teeth for them. I'm just waiting. My skin is rather pink than white, and honestly I feel like a little pig sometimes. Can't help but think otherwise. I mean it in a cute way, but I notice my own sadness and tone. I learned to be mean to myself in many ways. My hands are as small as my feet... the rest functions well, but it's big. Belly, forearms... just... too big. I'm not pretty, I think. Maybe my face. And maybe I'm cute, like a kid. But not an adult-like cute.

There's also the allergies. My skin can't take much, so it doesn't matter if it's pretty or not: it does not function. They say it's due to stress and, honestly? I get it. It is stressful. Still, there's something about your own body. It takes you to places. Most of the time. It breathes, it pumps blood, it eats, digests food and then expels the rest. It sleeps. And, well, as sick as my depressed, bipolar and obsessive-compulsive brain is, my creativity is there, right? Deeeeeeep there, it's a fun place. But, overall, I'd get the worst ratings. I don't stand out in a good way, and I don't have money or will to buy stylish clothes. Although I have quite some etiquette, I'm forever going to be an outsider, so the way I speak and the way I act is always going to be a downside to many.

Now, I could change. I could deprive myself of the few things that make me happy: eating and laying down. I could learn how to speak in another accent, and I could become a fascinating person. Like, it isn't impossible. I could even get my face done, and look different. No puffy, childish, rosy cheeks that hide my eyes when I smile. I could put make-up on, wear body cream, and my elbows and my feet wouldn't feel so rough to the touch. I could even smile more, be nicer or meaner, I could enjoy Christmas and I could call my grandma more. I could quit this graduation and start doing something with math or science, and I could have other political views, and I could not be who I am, entirely. And I still know, for a fact, that I would be a punching bag. A punchable face, a punchable heart, a punchable body. I'm the bearer of this. I'm a hoarder of problems that aren't even mine. But if you look at me, you'll feel this need to treat me so unwell. And as I, from an early age, felt the need to mirror others, I started doing the same. I looked at myself and I punched all I was, both figuratively and literally. And I'm brought back to that rainy day. And I'm brought back to every bullying session, and to every argument, and to every mean word, and to every objectification, and to every uneasy and unsafe moment. But, today, I want to go back home for once. To where I belong. Whatever or wherever it is. I need to take myself there. I recall a few of the houses I’ve lived in. There was this one next to my grandmother’s house, that doesn’t exist anymore. The apartment where I had my first pet (that hated me). My grandma’s house. That two-story house. The one I was friends with the landlord’s granddaughter… there were others, my mother tells me, but I don’t recall them. My whole life, I studied in three different schools. Some worse than others, but none were great experiences. And after I moved, only one University and two workplaces. I’ve been to various churches, and many other places, despite living for about 17 years of my life in a small town. Still, I never belong to any of these houses, schools, churches or communities. I’ve always been just me, with people unable to explain much about me, and the adjectives being quite lost in space. Fluttering, even. It’s not the case that I’ve found a place yet, thus I can’t tell you with a smile that “Now I belong”. Despite finally having friends, it’s nothing like a family (to which I also don’t belong to). I’m not dating nor do I have children, no pets, maybe a few collections here and there, but nothing that you can touch for too long, nothing that isn’t boring after a while, nothing to cry on, nothing to sleep with (in the most innocent way), nothing to hug, nothing to cook or shop for, nothing to care after. Nothing that needs me to live. No home to go back to, no home. Of course, houseless I’m not, thankfully, but home… maybe my room feels a little comfortable, but there’s the cleaning OCD. My skin doesn’t feel mine, my brain and my heart don’t relate to each other, my image isn’t my imagination – I am, but who am I?

I’d love to have someone to answer all of my worries. But I’ve tried therapy and as much as it doesn’t harm me, it doesn’t fulfill this need. Someone who’s going to look at me, inside and outside, and will tell what’s wrong, what’s right, what’s bad, what’s good, what and how I can change. And yet, I don’t know if I’ll accept it. Maybe it’s good that I don’t know. Well, I have my suppositions, but I don’t wish to believe them forever. Deep inside, I want to go home, to myself. I think about it quite often. When I’m shopping, when I’m eating, when I’m leisurely watching TV, when I take breaks from work. I wish I had myself more. Rely on me. Trust me. Love me. I get caught up on that. I try to think why it’s such a chore to consider myself worthy of my own affection, and yet it doesn’t make sense, whatever I come up with. Every six months I’ll have a huge breakdown and say “I’ll love myself this time!”, but in two days I’ll be mean to myself once again and care so deeply about every little mistake.

— Heeeey, Lily. — Oh, they were calling. I got a bachelor’s degree in Japanese, thinking I’d be able to become a full time translator, but I ended up becoming a full time teacher and part-time translator instead. I mean, I still have time to make my name, but the bills keep coming. The school I work at is, well, troubled. I don’t like the people that much, but I like teaching. No. I’m good at teaching. And being good makes me happy. I don’t thoroughly enjoy it. It’s my ego. I don’t belong here either, I’m not like my coworkers. But I have to be here, kind of. — Are you listening?

— Huh? Uh, yeah.

— So, answer it?

— Answer what?

— God, you never listen! — I don’t get why you need to talk during lunch break when you already talk all day. — We were sayiiiiing, do you have a boyfriend?

— Yeah. — I learned to lie. No need to come out, just lie. When I was still in Uni, it was fine to say “I’m focusing on studying”, but after I graduated I learned people started worrying too much about me not being with someone. So I just made up a boyfriend, and then I show a photo of a random J-Idol, and they buy it.

— When did you meet him?

— Uni. Well, excuse me, I’ll go brush my teeth. — I didn’t want to participate anymore. They’d ask more questions, and I was afraid I would get lost in my own thread of lies. I wanted to die, honestly, whenever anyone talked to me. Well, the students were fine, but the rest was just borderline impossible to keep up with. After doing my hygiene, I went to the room where we keep all the materials and supplies, trying to avoid the teacher’s room. One of my students, one of the older ones, came to me.

— Senseiiiii, are you free tonight?

— Hmm… I don’t have any plans in particular, but…

— Then, wanna come sing at the karaoke with us?

— Well… — Honestly, I enjoyed singing. I wasn’t skilled, but I loved music a lot. Still, going out with other people bothered the hell out of me. You have to go where everyone wants to, you can’t eat messily, I need to hear others’ bad singing, I need to be adequate and people need to enjoy it. — sorry, I just remembered Tae-Sensei wants me to work on a project for the school.

— Oh… okay, but if you change your mind, please come with us!

— Will do. Thank you, Micchan. — I appreciated it, honestly, but I didn’t want to be a part of it. It always happens that they think I’m not enough, and then I try so hard that I bore myself out, and then I hate them. It’s better if I miss out.

The rest of the day went by easily. But, I felt like going to the karaoke, so I’ll probably do it next week. Singing is good to cleanse the soul and gives you excuses to stay home the other day. I stopped by at the convenience store to buy myself a drink and an ice cream, or anything else that made me a little happy that day. I was trying to reach for a particular product, when I dropped almost half of the shelf. A girl in uniform, who was just done putting it there, started laughing at me. I thought she would get mad…? But she was making fun of me, right?

— I-I’m really sorry.

— It’s okay. Sorry for laughing, today was boring.

— Y-yeah… it was. Do you need help with it?

— Nope. That’s my work, don’t worry.

— Sorry again.

— Don’t be.

— Right, I’m sorry. — She looked at me, confused, then I was also confused. — Sorry.

— Please stop apologizing. Don’t say “sorry” for it again.

— I want to say it. And I’m… I’m sorry for not being able to stop myself. Sorry. Again. Fuck! — It made her laugh again.

— Why don’t you buy some alcohol? You sound like you need to get wasted.

— I’ve tried, but I can’t. I’m too scared of what I might become. Also, I take medicine, so I can’t drink.

— Huh? Well, okay… have a good night, then.

— You too. — I hurried to the register. That was, uh, an odd interaction. I just can’t help but be myself, right? I’m such a mess, I think. I’m skilled, and I know lots of stuff, but I can’t stop being sorry for just existing. What a life.

I arrived at my apartment and heated up my leftovers. Maybe tomorrow I could order a pizza or something, or I could try cooking a nice meal. I wasn’t always a mess. When it came to myself and only myself, I knew how to deal with stuff. But when it involved others, I was either too much or not enough. I was never just right, and I was never happy, and I never made anyone happy.

I ate, took a shower and cleaned my stuff (OCD, again) with alcohol. Well, I guess I was an alcoholic in a way. I couldn’t live without my spray bottle with that cleaning solution. Then, I sat on my bed. That summer was being rough, and I had no other option but to be in my panties and a top, with my window slightly opened. I had no fan or AC, because, well, the last one broke, and I kept forgetting to buy a new one. That didn’t matter for long, because I saw on my phone that my favorite singer had posted new content, and I wanted to check it out. After I gulped it down, I started watching older stuff of hers, and then I proceeded to ignore messages from my family.

The last time I talked to my parents… it was quite a while ago. Well, we had so many arguments, honestly. It was so abusive, with the excuses “We love you”, and “We’re trying our best”, but always threatening to me. I grew tired, and although I struggled now and then, I could feed myself and pay rent on my own. So I stopped talking to them. I had blocked them, but now they would message me through other numbers. I blocked them all, but one day, I just stopped. I let it be. It felt like I wanted them to know I saw they were reaching for me, but that I was ignoring them — the exact same thing I’ve been through during all the times they’ve failed to protect me. Was I a terrible child? Definitely. But I had my reasons.

I sighed, and sighed, partially because of how hot it was. Tomorrow was Saturday, so I could be myself and be there for myself. In a sense, I could be mine and just mine. If I wanted to go out, I could go on my own, and if I wanted to stay home, I could go to the kitchen, living room, or to the bathroom and no one else would bother me as opposed to being locked inside my room. I doom scrolled until my eyes got watery and tired, and then I knew it was time to sleep. I went to the bathroom once again, drank some water, turned off the lights, but I let the window open. “Tomorrow, I’ll buy a fan”, I thought, knowing well I’d forget about it. Then, I lied down, stretched, flickered my eyelashes, breathed in and out, counted sheep, daydreamed, and only fell asleep when I turned to my side. I don’t recall my dreams. My Friday went like that, just as the past Fridays of the last two years, and how the next two years will go. Probably. Things might get worse, but will they ever get better?

I finally bought that fan, but it didn’t come with batteries. It was already vacations, so, yes, I took some time. I went out to buy some, and I saw myself going to that same convenience store again. I met that girl again — and, well, I had before, but we never talked again — and she always seemed to laugh at me. I wondered if it was my figure? My expression? It didn’t look like she was being mean, not even careless. It looked like she was having fun. I don't know if I envy her, or if I'm mad at her, or if I'm just slightly annoyed. I feel too much, and I feel it all at once. I think she's trying to be friendly, but I can bring myself to like or understand her. She's the one who works here, and I'm a clumsy customer, and she meets many clumsy customers, and I'll eventually go to many stores. Or just a few ones, it doesn't matter. In the end, this is how it feels. It's summer vacation now, I don't have to go to work, I barely have any friends, I don't want to spend time with my family, and it doesn't matter. It mattered for a long time, but now I don't care anymore. I wonder what or who was the breaking point. Maybe it was during high school. Maybe a little later. It wasn't just all at once, but I gradually started not caring. Sometimes I'll care. And I'll be sorry, like that day. But today, I don't care anymore. If she sees me as a terrible, useless person, or if she laughs at me, it doesn't matter. It might affect my respect at work if it goes further than this. But she's just a mere worker, and I'm another mere worker, from worlds that don't mix, though, and she doesn't even know my name. She knows I dropped a half a shelf of products on the ground, and she knows I apologized over and over, but she doesn't know the things my father said to me, and she doesn't know how they used to treat me when I was eight years old. We're strangers, and she thinks alcohol could help me, she doesn't even know I can't have it. She doesn't know me, I owe nothing to her, it doesn't matter, I don't care, she could die right now, and I wouldn't cry or be worried. Right? I think so. I don't know. I don't want her to die. If she died, it would be troublesome. I don't want her to die. But I won't mourn it. I won't think about it. Maybe once. Or twice. Or three times. But never four. And never for too long. It doesn't matter, it just doesn't matter, it does not matter. I swear to God it fucking doesn't matter to me anymore.

Tumblr doesn't allow me to post the rest here, so please read the rest through this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51663571/chapters/130600915

#glazing a look at my way back home #sasoris #literature #young adult

[kaerimichirami]

my microwave heart gets so easily warmed

and yet it's still frozen on the inside

when will i learn that those 15 seconds mean next to nothing?

and do i deserve a full 45 minute baking?

can i, for once, have some slow cooking?

an apple pie. a baked alaska. oh, god, could i ever have enough dignity for a full menu?

but i am trapped in these 15 seconds, and im used to being so easily swallowed.

and am i able to swallow the truth?

do i have the tastebuds for a healthier love? or am i so easily bored by anything that has more boundaries and less freaking out sessions?

still, i've never even once was invited to dinner. not even to fool me.

instead, i was fooled and felt full from those microwavable meals.

why do i feel so satisfy when it's humanly impossible to feel satisfied from it?

and im still microwaving my heart, thinking it'll be as fancy as a six course meal. and it never is.

and im like ice within. it's quite slippery and sticky on the outside. maybe it was best by ages ago.

but i gulp it down, because what other choices do i have?

[kaerimichirami]

it is november 14th. my 20th birthday. im happier than i was 3 days ago when i wrote 'twenty'. thanks for checking in.

[kaerimichirami]

hello it is still 11/11 and i am still 19 years old but it will change in less than 3 years are you guys excited im not that excited but also a little? just the normal amount thank you.

[kaerimichirami]

'twenty' + afterword

In three days, I will have lived two decades. No matter how I look at myself in the mirror, what I think is clear: I’m old. Older than expected. Any normal person would think that twenty is oh-so young. It’s just the start. I’m barely an adult. I’m barely formed. I barely have ‘musts’. But that’s not how it feels to me. To me, ever since I took that one conscious breath… and I can’t remember anything from before I was eight or so. Thus, twenty is old. Twenty years of repentance, twenty years since a mistake they insisted so much to make. Twenty years since, I’m responsible for my feelings and the feelings’ of those around. Twenty years of being thrown around, twenty years of being merely an object, merely flesh, guts and fat. Twenty years of being laughed at, twenty years of being scared of noises from afar, twenty years of nightmares, twenty years of bad slept nights, twenty years of being my own child. Twenty years of bearing inside that one thing that makes everyone think it’s okay to hate on me. Twenty years of never deserving anything. Twenty years of being told “everything’s so easy for you”, twenty years of so much pain. Twenty years of being extremely tired, twenty years of being confused.

But… there’s the in between, right?

About twelve years of expressing myself through words, three years since I’ve made the cut to something bigger, and a few months since I started going by a name that suits me. And, in a sense, maybe I’m reborn every single day. Because just the fact that I still do wake up, even if it’s by 11AM or, God forbid, noon, I open my eyes and I get out of bed. Sometimes after a scream and a stretch, but I do. Then I cook my own food, and I manage to clean after myself and then cleanse my own body. I’m tired, so tired, but I’m still young… and that’s scary, because, honestly, I quite hate life and everything to do with it. But there’s still beauty. Words exist, and somehow, I was wickedly gifted the power of these magical fingers and little scattered brain, that move in a way that makes sentences so crushing, but comforting as well. When I look at myself, there’s little that had been saved. That little girl is dead, so dead, buried underground and they’ve eaten all of her flesh, just like when she was alive, right? Every single inch of her has been savored, by the nastiest mouths, and all I could do was watch as I was murdered and murdered over again. No… she was. I made it. I don’t know how, I must have ran…

This could explain why I’m so out of breath these days. I’ve been running from all of these for God knows how long. I’ve been doing it on my own. I hardly recognize my dirty and dry feet. All I’ve witnessed, all I’ve heard, all I’ve said… all I’ve thought, and all it has been thinking inside my mind. I’ve made it. Twenty years of this. Am I supposed to be happy? I’m going to be congratulated, and dad’s gonna call, and I’m supposed to hear ‘Happy Birthday Dear…’ someone who was never dear to anyone. Because they’re going to say that name, and they’re going to call me ‘her’, and I’m going to feel as hopeless as I felt last year, and the other, and the other, and you go back 20 years and it was raining so much during that Friday, just as it rains from my eyes as I write this.

And I’m going to be forever that kid, when I turn 30, 40, if I make it past that, I’m always going to be that little thing. Someone that has to do their very best to not want to die, someone who was to learn what self-love is because how could anyone love this freak? It’s hard to understand when it started, but it never ended. Even when they all die, even when their flesh rots and oh God how I pray it rots, I will still suffer from all the pain that’s caused and from every single thing I haven’t learned. And whenever something improves, whenever I get an opportunity, or if I somehow lose half of my weight, I’m gonna hear that I’m finally not being lazy anymore.

But it is only once that you’re ten and your mom is too scared to tell you what they diagnosed you as, so she hides it until you find it out when you’re sixteen and so, so much worse than before. It is only once that your father tells you that if you’re not slimmer by December, there’s no way he’s coming to see you. It is only once you realize “I’m not worth it”, and then every single day until you stop breathing is a chore.

Why should I make the bed when it’s my hurt and used body that’s lying there afterward? When I can’t give up a single addiction, when I can’t stop doing the things that give me such terrible headaches, when everyone I talk to seems to not understand me. When I look at my little hands, or when I look at my side profile and I’m suddenly upset, when I wonder if I’ll ever manage to bear a child. When I no longer love my breasts, and when any T-shirt that’s more masculine feels so awkward and fucking hell how much I’d love to have a chest so flat that I would look just a little less lame. When I chant to myself “I love you”, “I love you”, “I love you”, as I caress myself and put myself to sleep after I cry. Myself, myself, myself. I’m only on my own… it’s twenty years of being on my own.

It never has the same weight, I’m a bother to all of them, but they can bother me as they please, because my feelings and my needs never matter and every little thing is a huge trigger for me. And they have that name sewn to every little baby towel, and it’s on my documents, and it’s right there in the living room and if I manage to end this fearsome life, the name they’ll put right on my grave is the name of a girl that died nine years ago. Not me.

It’s the end of my teenage years, but it’s not the end of my anxiety and sorrow. I’m only “in the real world now”, but was I ever sheltered before if the monsters were holding my hand? And they don’t seem to realize how heartbroken I am. No… how flat line I am. They smile at me, and they tell me how pretty I am. Now? After all of that torture? Now I’m worthy of such compliments? When I was so little and so dependent, you could never say that to me.

It never comes when I need it. It never exists when I can still make use of it. There’s no appreciation until I have quit, and there’s no love until I start hating them. Now it makes no sense to be there for Christmas, or to wish for a party. Now it makes no sense to wait for my dad to come see me, now it makes no sense to have a friend group. Now I’m almost twenty years old and my worries and fears are still the same, but my needs changed. Now I don’t need to be protected anymore, but I don’t care. Now I can’t say “I love you” or expect to hear it, but maybe if I could go back… Would I change something?

If someone came to me right now and said they’d change my body, my identity, and I would be loved, and I would have never suffered all of that. If I had to give up my gift, if I wasn’t me anymore, and then I would be loved. Would I say, “yes?”. If I could go back twenty years in time, and be back inside mother’s womb, about to be born, back to a world that isn’t crushed yet, and every single thing could be different, and everyone would be nice, but with the cost… that I’m not me. That I can’t find shelter in words. That I’m exactly like they wished… I don’t think I’d be able to accept such a thing. No matter how I’m crying right now, I wouldn’t… because I know these people, and I know that city, and I know the blankets I’ve been wrapped with, there would still be something wrong with me. Even if my body was of a model’s, even if my brain wasn’t full of obsessive-compulsions, even if I loved the name they chose, even if I wasn’t the odd one out… I would still be hated and thrown around. I would still not feel comfortable in this skin, and make-up would still not make sense. I would still not feel welcome, I would still not belong, and worse… I wouldn’t even be me. Even if I’m an insignificant little thing, even if I’m somewhat disgusting, even if everyone said I should cut and change every part of me… I wouldn’t trade that for people who couldn’t fucking love and protect a child.

So… it’s going to be twenty years of protecting this little being, twenty years of failing, twenty years of mourning her death, twenty years of being thankful she died, and it’s on me now. Eight years since I’m not a kid anymore, and that brings me quite some peace, even if being an adult is this saddening, nothing’s worse than having it taken from you the first time. Even if I meet so many more terrible people, even if I put myself in the worst situations, I will never be ten years old again. Thank God.

To my twenties: I won’t say I want to forgive and forget. To forgive would to be to lie, and to forget would be to also forget what makes me a survivor. So I ask for ease. I want to drink more matcha lattes, and I want to buy clothes that make me happy. And I want to live on my own, and cook myself my own meals and, God, I don’t wanna do the dishes forever. I want to buy a dishwasher, even if I pay it for, like, three years, it’d be so worth it. I want to write more, and to be less shy and let people read me. Because even if the world is mean and full of liars, there are little orchids and lilies that bloom eventually. I want more springs, but especially autumns and these little beginnings of summers. I want winters, too, and maybe even Christmases. Even if I’m on my own, even if no one gifts me, I guess I’ll be there. I want to jump into pools, and definitely have my own bathtub. I want to get wasted once, just to know how bad it feels afterward. I want to give myself little pats in the back, and I want to look into the mirror, into those hazel eyes, and even if there are tears, I want to be proud of whatever I am. I want experiences, the good ones, and I want to eat delicious pastries. I want to see cherry blossoms and I want to hear birds chirping. I want to be able to grow from this. And I want to, in ten years or however long it takes for me, to in my thirties wish for good things. Maybe I’ll have other references, and good things I want to keep happening. I’m not going to ask for anything big. Of course, I wish for money and success. But, over anything else, I wish to be me. And knowing myself, and my own life, ‘success’ isn’t something I can wish for. It’ll be surprising if it does happen, though. And, after my thirties and all the rest of my until now quite miserable life, I want to have lived long enough until I’m ready to be a child again, because, what if I still suffer? What if I get another childhood like that?

Now that I’m not a kid anymore, but that I’m still scared of the bathroom window, I can’t think of too many reasons to celebrate my twenties. After all, I’ll be blowing meaningless candles and I know I won’t have a wish to make, because when I do, I’m never given it. But a small part of me is happy, and my tears and my wandering heart say it’s her. The little girl I was, that was killed so ruthlessly. The girl that never made it to her wedding, or to her kids’ birth. The girl who never even made it to high school parties, to her first drink or to high heels.

But we still have the same little hands. These pinkies that never grew. We have the same little curls in our hair, and we have the same thirst for knowledge. We have the same love for poetry, even if she, as a child, read so much more than me. We have the same sense of justice and the same need to flee. These feet that move me are the same that moved her. The neck that connects my head to my body was hers one day, and maybe our smile is the same, even though she was losing teeth at the time. The awkwardness I feel in public, alongside the desire to talk about our likes, that happiness of eating ice cream and the realization that it is all over ever since it started is just like what she felt in the almost eleven years she lived.

The goosebumps, the shivering, the breakdowns, the manic episodes, the lethargy, the love for words, all the collections, all the tunes, the flavors that can be felt, the smell of that particular perfume, it’s all hers, but I keep it inside of me. Sometimes it overflows, sometimes she overflows, and then I cry, and then I write. Sometimes I hear her talking to me, sometimes she’s the one whispering “I love you”, and I know for a fact that that sweet little girl would never hate me. Because she’s so sympathetic, and her chubby cheeks are my chubby cheeks, and they get as red as hers got… when I think of her death my soul crushes, but there is no doubt, no fog, no blur: I might not be a girl, but I’m always going to be her. We don’t share a name, but we share our precious birthday. And I’m only becoming twenty in three days because of her. Because I love her so much, and I can hear her say “I love them too”, that I’m here right now. And I might cry a little more, and maybe I’ll even cry as water washes my body, but when I hear “Happy Birthday”, I’ll just think of how dear she is to me. And I’m so sorry, my baby, that you have died. I’m so sorry they were so mean to you. I’m so sorry, my sweetheart. I can’t look at your pictures right now, because if I look at your little face, I will feel them on my skin again. If I stare at it too long, I will start smelling that scent I hate. I’m sorry, my little girl. I’m so sorry.

I’ll make up to you. I’m going to put on pretty clothes. And maybe I’ll even put on some lipstick, dysphoria completely aside. I’ll have a feast and then, some cake. I’m going to be twenty-one, -two, -three, and so on… I’ll do it for you. I will live so many decades, and I will do my best to get up every single day from each year of these many decades. I will honor you, and I celebrate every single November 14th. And when I turn twenty-two, it will be another Friday, just like the day you were born. I wonder if it will rain? And I wonder if you, buried so deeply inside me, will understand someday I only did this to not let anyone hurt you anymore? I had to grow up. I know your ghost appears when I’m hurt or silenced, and I live my childhood days all over again. But I hope you understand you’re deep inside my heart, beating so vividly, and that I won’t let your memory die, no matter how faint or dim it is. I hope you know I love you more than I love anything else in this world. Even more than you loved dinosaurs. And even more than I love the current me.

For your dreams, that will never be fulfilled. For the family you will never go back to. For the hometown that you will never feel homesick for. For the friends that gave up on you. For the expectations that were never met. For the fact I had to grow up and bury you deep inside my childlike thoughts. For the fact that it doesn’t get much better than this… I will be twenty, for you and me. In two days and one hour. I will have turned twenty. In this roller-coaster I’m trapped right now… all I can say is “sorry”, and “I’ll try to do better next year”. But knowing you, my little Snow White, you’re just happy I made it, right? You’re proud of me. And I can say that, because no matter how many analogies I used to justify my trauma and fear, I am you and you are me.

I’m proud of myself, for these twenty years. I’m that little girl, as much as I’m not her anymore. I’m all of my dreams, and none of my nightmares. I’m all the love I’ve received. I’m all of my good deeds. I’m all of my peace. I’m all of my hope. I’m you, my little baby, and just because of that, I already deserve it all. Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to me. I pinky promise you, I’ll never give up on us. I’ll never give up on telling our stories. I’ll never give up this that you gave me. This body, this mind, I’ll cherish everything. Thank you for giving it to me. Let’s have fun in our twenties. Let’s keep writing and writing, even if it can’t ease all the pain… you’re not crying anymore, neither am I. When I go pick the cake, when I sing along the song… I’ll be looking at you all the time, and I will be loving you so deeply all along. And whatever I do, wherever I go, you’re going to be there with and for me. Because you’re all I could ever ask for. Because, right now, more than ever, and a little less than in a few days, I am. And I’m glad to be.

AFTERWORD:

Hello. It is Polaris here. This is more of a way to vent (as writing has always been) than a proper fictional work. It took me, what? About an hour to get this done… and I also had random bursts of tears meanwhile… whenever I wrote "I'm crying" or something, it was real. For a little bit of context, as I didn't get into much detail, I have been through a lot of unfortunate situations that caused me to have, now, lots of trauma and things to deal with. Both people close to me, supposed to protect me, and complete strangers, have done this to me. I'm constantly fighting this, as I've been doing therapy for, like, almost five years. Turning twenty made me a little emotional for the past two weeks, and today a certain situation triggered me into this sorrowful state, so I munched on a white Kitkat as I wrote this soul-crushing thingy. It talks about so many things… being fat, being non-binary, things that are very dear to me. Basically, all's true, besides my analogies. Which is sad, so if you read this and felt like 'oh, but it might be fiction', it's not, so you have all the right in the world to cry right now. And if I made you cry, I'm really sorry. I'm just doing what my favorite author did to me a few years ago. In a sense, I ended this way more hopeful than I started it. I had a good cry, you know? It was important, I think. I grew. I think I'm ready to enter my twenties… as if it waits, right? Life doesn't wait. But, also, that could mean a good thing. It just never happens to me, but it might happen soon. Or not, but I can never know. It's both good and terrible. I'll always be hurt, no matter where I go to, but I feel like now I have regained myself. Even if I can barely do things, even if everything's still a chore, even if I'm so easily bored and distracted, I feel like myself. Honestly, it has been at least like four months since I looked outside my window and thought, "wow, I'm happy today." You know, that feeling of… hm… of safety, relief? That almost feels like a summer breeze? I think that's happiness, like, true happiness. I feel it every six months or so, so maybe in January or February I'll feel it again. It lasts about two or three days, so it's good to cherish those moments. Unfortunately, I can't bring myself to write when I'm like that. So maybe, being sad is just my artsy trick. Maybe one day I'll publish this, and my other tales. Maybe one day I'll make money from all of my sadness. And that'll be fucking awesome, I'm not gonna lie. But, I kinda would rather if I both already had money and was happy more than six times a year. Anyway… it will be midnight soon, which means it'll be the 12th… and then, two more days. I guess nothing will change, but I'll definitely update you guys if I finally have my overnight growth spurt and stop being a short… not king, but a genderless noble. Also, orange Mentos (that I'm munching on 'cause I found it lost inside my bag) taste like vitamin C… why does anyone like orange-flavored things? Well. I'll be back in a while with another story. I want to write something gay(er) soon. If you read this past November 14th, 2023, I'm already 20 years old. Happy birthday, future me. And Happy birthday, old me. Heading to the future, where one day I'll be glancing my way back home. 

#glancing my way back home #sasoris #literature #young adult #birthday #coming of age #vent post #traumadump #happy birthday #original story #supernatural #twenty #turning twenty #20

[kaerimichirami]

men are just like horses. if they get really sick, you have to shoot them.

#horses #men #life quotes #tips #cooking #riding horses #doctor #farming #fishing #bubbline #anime

[kaerimichirami]

Sakura: “So apparently the ‘bad vibes’ I’ve been feeling are actually severe psychological distress”

[kaerimichirami]

Sakura at Starbucks: “Can I get a venti vanilla latte with, uhh, seven expresso shots, please?”

Saki: “Jesus, just do cocaine!”

[kaerimichirami]

Sakura: “Bitches be like ‘im baby,’ but have childhood trauma and neglect. Like WTF do you know about being baby? You were forced to grow up from an early age. Anyways, I’m bitches”

[kaerimichirami]

Junko: “Treat spiders the way you want to be treated.”

Ai: “Killed without hesitation.”

Junko: “No.”

[kaerimichirami]

prompt: a ghostwriter that takes its name quite literally [untitled]

I always loved writing, since I was a little kid. Pen and paper was my source of comfort, it was my therapy, my medicine, my everything. Still, it seems like unless you already come from a pretty wealthy family, or if you write something that appeals to a huge public, you can’t really live from writing fiction. I tried so hard, I even wrote things I didn’t enjoy, and that slowly led to my demise. I stopped caring about those words, it just mattered if I was receiving that check… still, each time I would get less and less, and I felt trapped: I could barely buy food and rent was due. My sadness consumed me. Then, I had no other resort but to write for other people. Thus, I started accepting people’s requests and would write from children’s books to whole novels, but my name would never appear on the cover or credits. I was what people call a ‘ghostwriter’. Instead of publishing something good yourself, a person would take advantage of their position and influence and use it to make some cash. Unable to write anything palatable themselves, I was the one doing the job. That wasn’t uncommon, but no one would disclose they did that kind of job, or that they paid someone to do it. Because it hurts our ego, right? For quite some time, it made sense. I was being able to write things I had passion for, and, even if in a wicked sense, my books were being recognized and loved. As much as I’d rather have my name published and on billboards, and that I hated knowing I’d never take any credit for my hard work, money was a priority. But money is an extremely finite thing, and I hadn’t yet realized that even if I made millions, I would still be upset. Turning my love into my bread-winning was just not it for me. It slowly became a chore to write, and my requests were once again becoming things that went way further than what I sincerely enjoyed.

This took me over the edge. I was surely becoming someone else. Someone I barely recognized. Someone that spent so long staring at a computer screen. The days passed, and I stopped feeling the need to drink, eat, sleep or even rest. My eyes never closed, my hands never stopped, and I was extremely concentrated. I could write for days, maybe weeks, without realizing a single second had passed. I never made a single mistake or had to rewrite something. It took me a while, but I finally came to my senses: I stopped receiving messages or calls from any loved ones, the sounds from afar were different, and when I looked around, I could see how deteriorated everything had become. The date on my computer screen marked a year that was humanely impossible for me to be alive in, considering when I was born. When I finally looked down, my hands didn’t quite look right: my fingers didn’t hurt from the consistent typing, and it was rather luminous than reflecting the light above me, that was, in fact, already burnt.

#sasoris #literature #dumb #kind of a self-insert too #supernatural #ghostwriter #ghost #ghosts #boo #sorry halloween was over a week ago #glancing my way back home

[kaerimichirami]

999

That’s how some things go. That’s just expected. One day, you reach the breaking point. One day the distance is too unbearable. One day the smile fades. One day it is all gone, as sand that passes through between my short fingers. One day it becomes dust. One day it is over and there is nothing to prevent that. There is a light, until you make it responsible for eliminating all injustice. It slowly dims, and it’s such a slow process that you get used to it. Occasionally, you’ll ask yourself: “Am I running out of time?”, but you will never be able to actually do something. It’s all in vain. It will disappear and everything will be pitch-black, and soon your eyes will serve no purpose. Your hearing weakens, and with that your balance is also lost. Your skin is too rough, and you can’t feel the delicate little trinkets anymore. All you can smell are bad ideas and failures, and all you can taste is regret and the bitter risperidone. One day, nothing matters anymore, because everything was taken from you before you could even use it. One day, you wake up, and you’re an adult now, but haven’t you always been on your own? One day, you don’t feel comfortable in your own body, but hasn’t every day been like this since you were eight years old? One day, you realize how painful it is to not be able to remember of anything that happened before that. Causality is all messed up, your brain is all messed up. You can think of a few pretty words. You can name a few flowers you like. But you can’t go and smell their scent, right? All there’s left are withered dreams and thorns, that pierce the remaining of your poor body, soul and heart. And it pierces oh-so deeply, and it bleeds to the point there’s a tiny pool right under your feet. Splash, splash. It is all confusing, it is all extremely unfair, and you can’t hold conversations anymore, and no one understands or helps you. No one has ever, no one does, and no one ever will. It is all just a matter of time until you break after the countless bending, but you resist. You resist, because maybe, if you’re strong enough, you’ll overcome that, and you’ll get to live tomorrow. But tomorrow is just like today, that was just like yesterday. And if it’s not just like it, it will be worse. So you put on this extreme effort to get up, brush your teeth, while everything falls apart, while everything bothers you, while your birthday is two weeks from now, and you can’t give up just yet. Because there’s more to see, and you’re so scared of hurting yourself again. There’s probably no exit, and there’s probably even more pain in the future, but just maybe, one day you will be on the news, receiving a prize for making the cut. You will see the light again, breathe in and the scent of lilies and orchids will overflow, you’ll be able to touch each petal with your gentle hands, and food will come guilt-free.

But that’s not today. And that won’t be tomorrow. And nobody will do it for you. And you have to try, because it might be next Friday, or next month, or next year, or in 47 years. Today, you wonder how did you manage to walk all the way to your twenties, but in twenty years it will be just the same. And you’ll wonder, again, why do you put this much effort into such a hopeless person, such a poor soul, why work so hard for someone who gets mistreated all the time, who has so many traumas, who has constant fears and nightmares. And it doesn’t make sense. Dying would be so much better. But there’s a chance. A small, no, tiny, microscopic chance, that you will love those tunes again. And that you will laugh at your own jokes, and that one day you’ll cook such a great meal for yourself. And that one day, you’ll lay in bed, and you will feel the warmth of your blanket, and your pillow will be properly cold, and you’ll feel ready to sleep a full night. But that’s not today, right? You don’t feel comfortable now. And you can barely keep up with yourself. But you keep imagining, that there is something worth it. That you’re worth it. Despite the rest of the world telling you’re not. And maybe there are things that are worth it. And people that are worth it. But that hasn’t happened to you. Maybe it never will. But you can’t waste this chance, right? That is smaller than the smallest cell of your body. For some reason, you need to keep going. Whatever that means, wherever it takes. It’s painful, it’s tiring, it’s unfair. You’re at your lowest and there have never been ups. But maybe… oh, you’re already tired of your own excuses. But, the truth is… it seems quite unfair that you should end it yourself, right? Because you wouldn’t give a damn if you were killed, but having to do it, when no one ever helps you, when others wish your death but don’t have the guts to do it themselves? It just feels like it’s too much.

So you sit down, and you keep staring at that screen, and you occasionally cry and occasionally laugh, and there’s nothing to your day but the littlest things that no one cares. But that’s all you are, and that’s all you have. And you don’t want to lose anything else. And you don’t want to lose more of yourself. So you gather each piece, and you awkwardly glue it together. And that’s you. And that’s as far as you go. Actually, that’s how everything goes. That’s already expected, you tell yourself every day. And yet… one day, you’ll reach the breaking point.

#sasoris #literature #kaerimichirami #glancing my way back home

[kaerimichirami]

Tae: "Ruagrhrgahr" (I hope I'm not just an insane person to you guys but also a weirdo and a bitch.)

[kaerimichirami]

[kaerimichirami]

Inkling (2023 Halloween Special Short Story)

“C’mon, I’d love it if you came along!”

“I don’t know… how will they look at our relationship? A-and I’m not good with young people!”

“Pfff… you wouldn’t have pulled me if you weren’t.” That wasn’t true, as Liv was mostly like a tired salary man in his fifties. “It’s just a six-year gap, five for Maddie! Besiiiiides, it’s my first trip since dad’s passing… I want you to be there if I end up breaking down or something.” Well, in that case… Liv was really close to her late dad, and they would often go on trips together. He was a sweet father, but had been battling depression after a succession of bad happenings in his life. One day, he abruptly ended all of it, by hanging himself. Liv and I were dating for only a few months, and I remember how many nights I hugged her so tightly as it was borderline unbearable. If going meant I was going to be there for her, then…

“Okay… I’ll go.”

“Thank you, Claire. It will be so cool! Cece got us a minibus and everything!” It was rare for Liv to be that excited about something, so I didn’t feel like disappointing her.

Over a week passed, and we were getting in the minibus. I needed to check with Liv their names, of course. I didn’t want to mess up. Maddie was the oldest, who was dating Cece’s twin brother, Darius. Let’s say he ‘fit in well with the girls’ and that Cecelia was so much more masculine than him. Maddie… didn’t seem to notice. It was almost like a twin event, Cece’s girlfriend being Aurora, Aurelia’s sister. They were identical. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart if Aurelia didn’t have shorter hair, shaved eyebrows and many, many body piercings. She was a little scary…? No, not for her looks. She was just scary. Then, there was Jen and Sophie. Jen had so many tattoos, but she was hilarious and light. I also managed to have some deeper talks with her. Sophie was one year younger than the rest of them, and she was deaf, so I managed to learn a few signs to communicate with her. As the sweet girl she was, she got so happy with that.

When I met Liv, she always talked about Sophie. Deep down, I thought there was something between them. Turns out they just had a really deep sister-like bond, as both of them had lost their moms when they were younger, and Liv simply sympathized a lot and learned ASL to talk to Sophie properly. As Liv had rather a hard shell, Sophie seemed to be one of the few people to get to know her truly. Also, Sophie was down baaaad for Jen. Bad.

As for Cecelia, she was the jokester, the troublemaker, and lacked a little of respect and know-your-placeness. She was an extremely rich kid, so I never wondered why she was like that. Liv claimed she was in fact a good person and was really special, deep inside. I had trouble understanding that, though…

Going camping, in the mountains, with these folks, let’s say it didn’t sound like an amazing thing, you know? Camping was a hard no for me, I hated insects, sleeping in tents… but I couldn’t resist Liv’s begging, so there I was. We got in the minibus, and, wow, it wasn’t mini. In fact, it was huge and it even had a bathroom. Yes. With a shower. That was more like an RV, right?

We would take turns driving, except for Sophie who didn’t have a license, and Cece who “couldn’t be trusted driving”, Maddie’s words. She was supposedly the oldest, but she lacked much personality. I hated to perceive her that way, but she was a big-boobed straight girl with a gay boyfriend. Nothing but that. Ugh… I felt bad being surrounded by people between 18 and 20 years of age. It was fine, really, but it also felt a little weird. Liv searched for my hand, and it felt quite reassuring.

Over an hour in, and we were really getting along. Darius was an annoying piece of shit, and neither Maddie nor Aurora had much to their character, but Aurelia and Jen were really fun people. Sophie was seemingly in her own world, even though she wore hearing aids, they often didn’t make her justice. But Liv told me it was always like that, and she didn’t mind. Aside from her, Jen also knew ASL, so they had their own private conversations sometimes. I looked at them, and I wondered if they were flirting? But the signs I knew couldn’t answer that doubt.

We had superb snacks, and we were just having a nice time. I wondered what it would be like. Liv told me we would sleep in cabins, so we would have rooms. That would be nice, right? Not having to sleep inside tents.

It was my turn to drive, and it felt very easy. Well, it was late at night, and the road was basically empty… I wasn’t the best driver, but my only obstacle here was to not fall asleep. Liv sat beside me, and her loud laugh in response to her friend’s telling stories was keeping me pretty awake. She would often caress my thigh when it felt right, and you know, give me her little looks. After about an hour, the timer they set ran out and the brother took charge. Liv brought me to the back, and said she wanted to talk. We went to the bathroom, that was quite spacious. I mean, if you consider it was a bus. Also, it didn’t smell or felt weird (despite Maddie’s sickness from earlier).

Instead of words, she just gave me a kiss.

“Sorry. I just wanted to kiss you.” So, that meant they didn’t know. In fact, I was Liv’s professor from College. I had just graduated, and I was a mere substitute. But I was still older, and it was still quite immoral, despite Liv not being underage. Still, I wanted to kiss her, too… they would know, right? That we were making out. The fact we were taking so long, and the fact we would look all messed up when we came back… but she was so captivating, her lips were so sweet, honey-like, and her hands on my back just felt so right. Liv was much taller than me, so it always felt a little unfair when I would top her most of the time. I mean… I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, right? We… we were just kissing, nothing else. As we were dizzy and sopping, we ran out of breath and separated. She gave me a sweet smile before opening the door and leaving, and I followed her right after. They didn’t seem to mind, although Cece looked at us with a smirk. I knew she knew, but my face still got red.

“Wait… I don’t think that’s the right way.” Jen said. Darius replied, saying he had only followed the GPS, nothing else. Besides, there was no turning he reminded of taking. Just going forward, and forward. I wondered what happened…? It was dark outside, as it was, as I checked, two in the morning. But the streets looked eerie, in a sense, the trees seemed so old and, well, not exactly withered, but… dying.

They fought over it for a moment, when they decided to stop the engine. There was a sign next to us, and it didn’t look like English. In fact, I knew many writing systems, and I couldn’t recall that. I tried picking up my phone to use some photo reverse search to find what it was, when I found out we had no signal. Uh-oh. The GPS also seemed to not be working properly. I asked them if they had signal, but no one else had. What was really fun for a few hours soon got to be a little stressing.

Aurelia didn’t seem to mind, but I could see a little panic in Sophie’s eyes. Liv and I looked at each other, but neither of us knew what was happening. There was some sudden fog outside, and I couldn’t see much. I wondered what the sign meant? I told Liv, but we couldn’t read it anymore.

Even Cece was getting a little scared, because it was so sudden. Well, we had food for a few days, right? We could just turn around and make our way back. I suggested it, and they seemed to agree. Miles back, there was a hotel. We could stay there and continue our trip the next day, or we could just sleep in the bus, in a safer location.

Darius tried starting the bus many times, but it would always die. He tried, over and over again. Then Jen tried, then I tried… nothing worked. As I was trying for the third time, I heard that Bossa Nova tune Liv kept as her ringtone. So, we had signal. I was going to say something like “Wow, I’m so glad”, when I saw the dread in my dear Olivia’s eyes as she looked at the phone.

“W-what’s wrong?” She was in utter shock, and she barely managed to mumble:

“I-it’s my… dad…” As she showed the phone to us. That could be a joke, right? Also, that could just be someone with the old number. No… he had died four months ago and Liv didn’t cancel the plan, she kept paying it and put the SIM card in an old phone, so she could use it as an emergency one. Trembling, as we all heard that cheerful-but-sad Brazilian melody, she picked it up and put it on speakerphone.

“H-Hello?” But no one would reply a thing. It was just an eerie sound, like a scary video game BGM. We thought no one would say anything, until, we heard voices. Many voices. Like a chorus, who sang “come with us, come with us.” That could only be a prank, right? That’s what we all chose to believe. We were sticking to that, and trying to make the bus work again, when we heard a knocking on the door.

“Do not open it.” Jen said, and we all nodded. All the curtains were on, but there was still the front of the bus, right? The old man… no, the thing… it kept knocking, and knocking. Its eyes were empty, I could see it so well as it was right in front of me. It smiled at us. It looked friendly, as if it was inviting us to a local party.

Suddenly, Sophie fell to the ground. She started screaming, as she covered her ears. I didn’t know what was happening, but she took off her aids, and it seemed to cease. Our phones were all glitching, and Darius’ smartwatch, too. We put all the electronics aside, but it was distressing for Sophie. She now relied on Jen and Liv, so Jen offered herself to intertwine her arms with hers. This way, she would feel safer.

The thing… it kept looking, and knocking. I couldn’t see much because of the fog, but I could hear more knocking, from various sides of the bus. Knocking, and knocking… it was some kind of rhythm. I slowly realized it was the same tune from the Bossa Nova from earlier. Liv must have noticed it too, and she started crying. That was her dad’s favorite song.

“Whoever’s doing this, it’s not fun!” Liv cried, and I hugged her. It seemed like it wasn’t a joke. Cece, who could be the only person to do something like this, was on the verge of tears herself. Even the twin, who didn’t care much about stuff, was scared. We were surrounded by a cult. And they were probably not human. We had nowhere to go, and we could only hope daylight would save us. But it didn’t.

“I… need to go to the bathroom.” Aurora said. Two minutes later, we heard her scream from the small room. It was locked, and we couldn’t get to her. She wouldn’t reply, just that loud noise, and then nothing. Cece was crying, and crying, and banging on the door, trying to open it. After a couple of minutes of extreme insistence, we managed to do it.

We found her bleeding, with a hole in her chest. There was no gunshot sound, there was no sign of someone breaking in. She was alone there, and now she was losing blood and unconscious. Liv looked so terrified and done. Sophie shared the same face.

“That’s how her mom died. Someone shot her, right there.” That’s right. The twins were actually adopted, after losing both of their parents. We didn’t know if we were losing Aurora or not. There was a first aid kit, but how could it help with that? There was no bullet. No damn bullet. There was no gun. There was no killer. There was just us. Cece was yelling almost incomprehensible things to her girlfriend, trying to keep her alive. Then, suddenly, she started convulsing. Her body shook and shook on the ground. It was violent. Cruel. Suddenly, she stopped. We checked both of their pulses, and they were dead. Liv and I did CPR, but it didn’t work. It was hopeless. The remaining siblings, who never talked, just looked at each other. None said a word. None cried. They couldn’t cry. It was that horrible.

Suddenly, Sophie seemed in pain again. She looked at us extremely confused, and it seemed like she had no idea where she was. We managed to have her sit down, and we tried calming her, but she replied to our every word, and she said the noise was too loud. What was that place, even? Now Sophie could hear? What the hell was happening? What killed those girls?

Darius remembered about an uncle of theirs, that had a stroke and died. He was really close to Cece, as she learned all of her tricks and jokes with him. Then… I looked at Liv… if we were bound to die like people in our family did, it only meant…

Before we could do anything, Maddie’s body jerked forward. She started to bleed heavily from her belly, as if there was a deep cut. She involuntarily got on her knees and was throwing up blood. We were face to face, and I saw her as she cried, trying to mutter something. She fell completely silent to the ground, defeated.

Liv looked at me with so much horror in her face. It wasn’t my sweet Liv. It’s like she had been through several wars. Then, I recalled. It wasn’t just her friend dying. She had told Liv just three days ago, she was pregnant. It was a shock, obviously. Did Darius know? They didn’t talk about a baby or anything. But he was so done, so terrified, too. We were just waiting for the other one to die. It was a matter of time.

The knocking still wouldn’t stop. It never stopped. The people were still there, as we looked from the windows. Then, I received a call. Unknown number. But the area code… I knew that well, it was from my hometown. I didn’t pick up, but I tried calling the police, thinking there could be a signal. Dumb me… as I unlocked my phone, it died, and I couldn’t turn it back up. I kept thinking about the area code... I couldn’t recall someone close to me who died, except for one… I had a little cousin, when I was five years old, she was a few months older. We only played together during the summer, as she lived in another town. One day, though, we were playing in the water and were both drowning. An older cousin thought I was the only one there, so he saw me struggling and got me out of the water. He had to give me CPR, but I couldn’t say she was still there. When he realized, it was too late. So that was it? I was going to die like that?

We all knew something was soon happening. It was just… so horrible. I wanted to cry. In fact, I was crying. As I hugged Liv, we cried our hearts out. The bodies gave me so much pain, and the knocking was making me go insane. But, overall, Sophie seemed to have it worse. It was unbearable for her. The knocking got only more intense, as the bus started to vibrate. I looked at Sophie, Jen was holding for dear life onto her, while her ears started bleeding. No… not only her ears… Her eyes and mouth started bleeding. She was the sweetest-looking girl, with her chubby cheeks… and then she looked like a monster, a suffering monster. She started coughing up that blood, and as she moved forward we saw that, to the back of her head, there was a huge cut. As if there was an axe wound. But there was no actual weapon. Jen was trembling to the point she couldn’t hold her anymore, and Sophie’s body just fell to the ground. We all looked at her, with so much sadness in our eyes.

Darius, who was trying to keep his cool, finally weakened. As the knocking grew louder and a chanting, like the one from the phone, started. He started screaming, and breaking things. It was just a matter of time for us to die, right? He looked like a beast. When, suddenly, he got calmer, and slowly descended to the ground. As if… he had received some kind of injection? There was a small bleeding coming from his arm. Upon checking, there was no breathing or pulse.

So, the remaining were Aurelia, Jen, Liv and me. I had my cousin, Liv had her father, Aurelia had her dad that died alongside her mother, but Jen didn’t know about her family. She was given away as a baby, and grew up in an orphanage, passing through many foster families. We tried asking her if there was anyone dear to her that could have died. But before she could reply, we started to smell something weird. It was… burning? Soon, I saw Jen’s face, her hair was falling apart, her skin, covered in bruises. It wasn’t hot near her. But she was on fire, somehow. There was once a fire in an orphanage in that city, I knew. That was the worst thing I have ever seen. I thought Maddie’s death was brutal, but Jen’s… she agonized, and agonized, and we couldn’t do anything.

At the same time, we heard a semi-scream coming from Aurelia. Her sister was shot on the chest, but hers… was right on her face. She looked at us for a few seconds, then fell to the ground, just like the others. The bus was so cramped with all of the corpses, and the knocking just got louder and louder, and the chanting just got louder and louder, and my fear just got worse and worse, and I held onto Liv and didn’t want to let her go.

I was happy that Jen finally seemed to die. Her agonized, melting, liquified face was too much for me to bear. I looked at Liv one more time, and I kissed her deeply. That would be our last kiss, I knew.

“I’m so sorry for bringing you here, Claire, I’m really sorry. I love you so mu-” I was crying listening to her words, that were soon interrupted. She was asphyxiating. Right… I couldn’t stand that. But I held her hands, and I repeated “I love you too” so many times. I saw her face turn bluish, then almost purple. She finally gave in, as her lifeless body fell into my arms. There was only me left, right? That meant… I would die. I closed my eyes, preparing myself.

But it wouldn’t come. It just wouldn’t come. I thought I would also feel the same thing, but it just wouldn’t happen. Then, it hit me. I had died. My cousin had saved me that time. So I wouldn’t die a creepy, senseless death without an author. I was the one that was being saved for last. I was the main dish.

The knocking stopped. And that was a terrible sign. They started breaking in. Through the windows, through the door. It was too many of them, and just me. I tried fighting back, of course I did, but I couldn’t do much. Their chanting never stopped, and it was indeed terrible. It messed up with my senses, I was extremely overwhelmed.

It would be terrifying to live after that. I saw every single one of them die. I saw my dear Liv die. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it. As I thought that, they stopped advancing over me. One by one, they left. It was just in time for sunrise, too. The street wasn’t foggy, and the sign was clear English. They disappeared in the horizon, leaving me free and alone. I looked around… all the bodies were still on the ground. The smell of vomit, blood and guts was making me so sick. I looked at my lovely Olivia in my arms, her closed eyes, growing colder each second. I had no will to live. I didn’t want it anymore. It felt suffocating. As if I was drowning. The phone rang again, and I looked at it. Trembling, I picked it up. A childlike voice answered it:

“So, Claire, tell me… how does it feel to be the one who’s chosen to live?”

(End)

Author's comment: this is my second attempt at horror. Hm, okay, when I was 14 I wrote some stuff, but nothing nearly like this. I know this isn't, like, extremely original and amazingly written, but I got some chills. Of course I had to put that "fate" thing into it. I can't do just pure horror where people die for reasons. Do I think any of them deserved to die? Nope. It's unfair. Extremely unfair. And that's how life feels most of the time. Sometimes, you just want to write some psychological horror and a little gore. I think Maddie's death is a bit too much, right? Because there's a baby there. Well... sorry. Well, about Darius is that he died like their family dog who got euthanized, I hope that made sense. Unlike my other stories, there's no message here. It's just for the thrills. You could think Aurora died from lack of serving or that Darius was a jerk, or that Claire and Liv's relationship was wrong and they should die for it. But no. I mean, maybe they weren't the best people on Earth, but it was just me being mean this time. I loved writing most of these characters, honestly. Also, I pictured Jen as a transfem but I couldn't put it in a nice way in the story (despite me being trans myself). I don't know if Claire knew that. I'll use that as my excuse, as it is her POV. Also, I don't really think it's her cousin called, but more something like... her guilt, that took a monster form in the underworld. Yes. We can think that. All of these characters felt some kind of guilt for the death of their loved ones. I never explain the background for Maddie and Sophie, but you can understand that it's people from their families, right? I didn't think too much. So, maybe there is a message here. Kill your guilt before it kills you. If you worry that much, it's probably not your fault and even if there is, you regret it, right? So let's move on before we get calls from people who died.

#horror #halloween #psychological horror #gore #body horror #supernatural #literature #sasoris #glancing my way back home