awishingtree

[awishingtree]

"How are you feeling?"

She asks

That familiar look of worry on her face

"Good"

I reply

Trying to sound as sincere as possible

"You know if you ever want to talk I'm always here"

She says, again, even though we both know she doesn't mean it

"I know"

I reply, again, even though I know I'll never talk to her

"Dad said that when you two were talking the other day you mentioned that something happened in the past"

My stomach drops and I can feel my heart jumping out of my chest

"It's nothing, I don't want to talk about it"

I say stiffly

Memories start flooding my mind

His hands on my body

His regret, realising what he has become

His words quiet but always loud in my mind

His face, a strange expression of peace on it

His wrists, carved with red trenches pouring out blood

My body throbbing with pain

"Did someone hurt you?"

Her voice brings me back to the car filled with tension

"No"

I say, staring at the road straight ahead

We're almost home

She says more but I can't focus on her

Everything blurs as I try to hold back tears

She stops talking

We sit in silence for a bit, both lost in our own thoughts

"What shoes are you going to wear for the wedding?"

She breaks the silence

I sigh a sigh of relief

"I'm not really sure, what do you think?"

And then we carry on talking

Like a regular mother and daughter

Ignoring everything that's wrong

Like always.

[awishingtree]

I'm not sure I like how relatable this is

"...there is an idea of Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behaviour must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this - and I have, countless times, in just about every act I've committed- and coming face-to-face with these truths there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing..."

- Patrick Bateman, page 362 of American Psycho

[awishingtree]

They say that the sunsets carry all the people that have died

You don't deserve to be seen in the beauty of the sun

Or to be gazed at with reverence as the day says goodbye

Your memory should fade like the stars at dawn

Erased by the light of a new sky.

[awishingtree]

She sat in the corner of her room, staring at the blank wall, feeling the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. Lately, reality and imagination had begun to blur. She could no longer distinguish between what actually happened and what she had only envisioned.

It started small—a forgotten conversation or a misplaced item. She would be certain she had left her keys on the kitchen counter, only to find them later in her coat pocket. She told herself it was normal, that everyone had lapses in memory. But then the scenarios became more elaborate.

One evening, she told her best friend about a fantastic party she had attended the night before. The details were vivid: the way the lights glittered, the music that pulsed through her veins, the laughter that surrounded her. Her friend listened, eyes wide with surprise, and then said, "I didn't know you went out last night. You told me you were staying home to study."

Her heart raced. She could have sworn the party was real. She even remembered what she wore—a red dress with sequins that caught the light. But her friend's confusion planted a seed of doubt in her mind.

Over the next few weeks, the imaginary scenarios grew more frequent and intricate. She recounted a trip to the mountains, describing the crisp air and the snow-capped peaks. Her parents exchanged worried glances. "Sweetheart, we haven't been to the mountains in years," her mother said gently.

She felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. The vivid memories felt so real, yet everyone around her insisted they were figments of her imagination. She started to question her sanity, wondering if she was truly losing her grip on reality.

To cope, she began to lie. When she recalled a scenario, she would stop herself before speaking, testing its validity. If it felt even slightly off, she kept it to herself. But sometimes the urge to share was too strong, and she would tell the story anyway, fully aware it might not be true.

Her lies became a shield, protecting her from the embarrassment of admitting she couldn't tell reality from fantasy. She fabricated mundane events—shopping trips, lunch dates, casual encounters—careful to keep them grounded and believable. Her friends and family started to notice her increasing reticence, but she brushed off their concerns with practiced ease.

As the months passed, the line between truth and fiction grew fainter. She found herself entangled in a web of lies, each one reinforcing the fragile narrative she had constructed. The stress of maintaining the façade weighed heavily on her, but the fear of being labeled crazy was stronger.

One night, alone in her room, she broke down. She cried for the girl she used to be, the one who didn't have to question every thought. She cried for the friendships strained by her deceit, for the family members who looked at her with wary eyes. And she realised in that moment that maybe everyone would be better off if she died.

[awishingtree]

She always knew something was wrong, even if she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The memories were elusive, like shadows slipping through her grasp, but the aftermath was ever-present. The therapists called it trauma-induced amnesia, a defense mechanism her mind had built to shield her from the unbearable truth.

The signs were there, written in the lines on her arms, the sleepless nights, and the never-ending anxiety that gnawed at her insides. She felt broken, like a doll with missing pieces, unable to fit together the fragments of her past. The doctors had diagnosed her with Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Labels that tried to explain her pain but did little to soothe it.

She lived her days in a state of constant fear, the anxiety wrapping around her chest like a vise. Every interaction felt like walking through a minefield. She second-guessed every word she spoke, every glance she gave, terrified of the rejection and abandonment that seemed inevitable. Her emotions swung wildly, from intense love to burning hatred, often directed at the same person within the span of a day.

To cope, she turned to self-harm. It was a release, a way to externalize the chaos inside her. The sharp pain of the blade slicing her skin was a distraction, a temporary silence to the relentless noise in her head. She kept the scars hidden, long sleeves and bracelets becoming her armor.

She didn’t talk about it. Not to her family, who she was certain wouldn’t understand, nor to her friends, who would only see her differently. She couldn’t bear the thought of their pity or their judgment. So, she carried it alone, the burden of her unspoken past and her crumbling present.

Night after night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing with unanswered questions and unsolved mysteries. The fragmented memories taunted her, pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t complete. Who had hurt her? When did it happen? The fear of the unknown was a constant companion, whispering in the dark corners of her mind.

Therapy sessions came and went, but the progress was slow, like wading through molasses. Each time she tried to reach into the depths of her memory, her mind recoiled, a wall slamming down to protect her from what lay beyond. It was infuriating and disheartening, leaving her trapped in a cycle of self-destruction and despair.

The years passed, but the pain remained. She moved through life like a ghost, existing but not living, her spirit worn thin by the weight of her silent suffering. She longed for a release, a way to break free from the prison of her mind, but it seemed forever out of reach.

In the end, she was left with nothing but the scars on her body and the emptiness inside her. The happy ending she had once dreamed of was a distant fantasy, replaced by a grim acceptance of her reality. She was a survivor, but at what cost? The battle left her hollow, a shell of the person she might have been.

And so, she continued, one day bleeding into the next, her past a ghost that haunted her every step, her future an uncertain void. She had no answers, no closure, only the endless ache of what had been taken from her, and the unending struggle to hold herself together in a world that never seemed to understand.

[awishingtree]

The days blurred together in a never-ending fog. Morning slipped into afternoon and bled into night, only to start over again with a numbing regularity. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the air pressing down on her chest. Sleep eluded her more often than not, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t control. The walls of her room felt like a prison, trapping her in a cycle of despair she couldn’t break.

She had tried everything to feel better. Therapy sessions that ended in frustration, medications that left her feeling more disconnected, and well-meaning advice from friends and family that only deepened her sense of isolation. Each failed attempt added another layer of hopelessness, another reason to believe she would never escape the darkness enveloping her.

The only thing that offered a fleeting sense of relief was something she never spoke about. The sting of a blade against her skin brought a momentary clarity, a break from the relentless ache inside her. She hated herself for it, for needing it, but it was the only thing that seemed to cut through the numbness. Each time, she promised it would be the last, but each time the promise shattered under the weight of her pain.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she found herself walking without direction, her feet carrying her away from the suffocating familiarity of home. She wandered through the quiet streets, past houses filled with light and laughter, until she reached the edge of town where the land fell away into a steep cliff. She stood at the precipice, the wind tugging at her clothes, and looked down at the dark, churning waters far below.

The cliff’s edge felt like a mirror to her soul: jagged, uncertain, and perilously close to falling apart. She stood there for what felt like hours, the roar of the ocean below mingling with the turmoil inside her. She thought about the endless days of waking up to the same crushing weight, the exhausting effort of pretending to be okay, and the isolation that seemed to grow with each passing day.

She thought about the nights spent staring into the darkness, her only company the hollow ache inside her chest. She thought about the moments of brief reprieve, the sharp pain that brought her back to herself, if only for a moment. Standing there, she felt the pull of the void, the temptation to let go and escape the endless struggle.

The wind whipped around her, colder now as the last light faded from the sky. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself cry. Tears streamed down her face, carrying with them the years of pain, the countless moments of despair, and the unbearable loneliness.

When she opened her eyes again, the world seemed both distant and unbearably close. She looked out at the horizon, where the sky met the sea in a blur of darkness. She took a step closer to the edge, her heart pounding in her chest, and then she stopped.

She stood there, on the brink, the choice laid bare before her. The wind howled around her, and the night closed in, but for a moment, she was still. She didn’t know if she would jump, if she would let the abyss swallow her whole. But in that moment, she allowed herself to feel everything she had been trying to escape, and she let herself hope, if only for a second, that there might be a way back from the edge.

[awishingtree]

Life or death

The wind whipped through her hair as she stood on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the vast, tumultuous sea. The waves crashed violently against the rocks below, a reflection of the storm raging inside her mind. For as long as she could remember, she'd been trapped in a cycle of overwhelming emotions and desperate attempts to feel in control.

Her relationships were a constant source of pain. She'd push people away, terrified of being abandoned, only to feel an unbearable loneliness when they finally left. Each goodbye was a knife to her heart, each severed tie a reminder of her unworthiness. She'd explode in anger over small slights, real or imagined, and then crumble into tears, begging for forgiveness. But the apologies never seemed to mend the fractures.

She'd tried therapy, medication, meditation—anything to quiet the chaos within. But the emptiness persisted, a yawning chasm that no amount of pain could fill. Each cut, each burn, a cry for help, a desperate attempt to release the pain that consumed her. Yet, it was never enough. The brief moments of relief were followed by deeper plunges into darkness.

One evening, after another ghosting that ended in silence and hurt, she found herself wandering through the woods. The familiar paths offered no comfort, her thoughts racing as tears blurred her vision. She stumbled upon the cliff, its height both daunting and oddly inviting. It felt like a threshold, a place where she could finally make a decision to end the torment.

She stood there, the wind tugging at her clothes, her heart pounding in her chest. Memories flashed before her eyes—the smiles, the laughter, the pain, the tears. Every emotion she'd ever felt seemed to surge within her, a maelstrom that threatened to tear her apart. She closed her eyes, feeling the void beckoning.

In that moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of peace, a clarity she hadn't known in years. She took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill her lungs. She could step forward and end it all, let the sea take her pain away. Or she could turn back, face the demons that plagued her, and try once more to find a way through the darkness.

The decision hung in the balance as she stood on the edge, her fate uncertain. The cliff held its breath, the waves roared below, and she remained poised between life and death.

[awishingtree]

The Lonely Stars

In the velvet cloak of night, they gleam,

Stars, silent sentinels of dreams.

Each a tear in heaven's eye,

Flickering, fading, as time drifts by.

Lonely souls in vast expanse,

Twinkling echoes of a cosmic dance.

Their light, a whispered elegy,

For dreams deferred, for souls set free.

But oh, the ache within their glow,

Stories untold, secrets they know.

Witnesses to love and loss,

Their silent shimmer bears the cost.

For even stars, in their celestial grace,

Bear the weight of time and space.

And as they twinkle in the night,

They mourn the passing of the light.

So let us weep for stars above,

For the sadness in their endless love.

Their beauty shines, yet hides the scars,

A melancholy dance of lonely stars.