Pathetic Motherfucker

It’s only cool to slash your wrists if you have the stitches to show people later. The older generation don’t quite get it, but the youth will wish they got their first. My stitched wrists give me the individuality people crave. It’s equal to getting an eye patch, or a broken arm. You have to do a lot to get attention these days.

I take it even further when in college. While taking notes, I like to write the word ‘sick’ across my page as many times as possible. I might even write a suicide note on a post it note and tear up the pieces, so someone can later pick up the pieces, stick it all together, and wonder who the hell is about to stick their head in an oven tonight. It’s an edge of mystery, people are more appealing when they have an inner darkness.

I also refuse to stick to cliques. I wander the college halls jumping from group to group, and I keep up the mystery by saying as little as possible. ‘Just who is this guy?’ they think, and then they want to know more. More to the point that they attempt to walk home with me, but don’t want to break any illusions, so walk off elsewhere instead.

When I walk home I take the back streets in case I come across some violence. If I could get mugged or attacked I’d be all the rage the next day. But I don’t really see much going on. Maybe violence only occurs at night when I’m not about. People tend to stay away from me on the streets, maybe I look like I’d beat their ass before they could beat mine? Whatever, I’m always out looking for crime.

When I get home there is no one there. My mother works late and my father might as well be dead, the TV broke his soul long ago. Sometimes he might glance over, but it’s a ghostly stare, he’s just not there. I make cereal for my meals and eat upstairs, for the buzzing of the TV hurts my head.

At night I lie on my bed listening to the radio. I used to spend a lot of time on Facebook and Twitter, but expressing your life online feels so vain. And no one would care about that anyway. Lying down to the classical music channel calms me down, prepares me for another day. I look at my wrists and stare at the stitches. I pull out my notebook and look at my sick notes. I flick through my phone contacts then switch off the phone. I slap my face to show how badly I’ve been beaten.

This way I can remain relevant, mysterious and cool. I tell myself that every night.

But tonight I pull out the stitches and rub out my sick notes. I ring up my classmates and press my head on a pillow. But nobody is on the other end, pen isn’t easily rubbed away, my cheeks still sting, and my wrists start to bleed.

As I lie on my bed, I hate the music playing on the radio. I can’t finish the cereal, and I’m telling myself everything will be OK in the end.

For I’m a pathetic motherfucker, and this is my game.

I’m too pale to be a shadow, and I keep thinking of my father as he sits and watches the TV. I go downstairs and we watch the soaps together, my wrists freshly bandaged, and my Dad not looking my way. I guess he’s the same as me, and for that I despise him.

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