Pleasure

Trigger Warning: Self harm, Mental health

Went to the coffee shop down 55th Street the other day. Ordered a black hot coffee. Ordered it quick. Lady asked why black. I told her I didn't want to talk. That she wouldn't want to know. She backed off. I got my cup of pleasure and took it to the apartment I'm staying at now. Went past the annoying old hag at the front desk. Usually tries to pester me with her pleasantries. Kept her mouth shut today. Seems she finally knew better around me.

You want my name? My life till now? My situation? My interests? That doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm in my 3rd level room, with the hot cup leaving this redness in my right palm. It's piping hot to the touch, but it's not enough. Though I knew it wouldn't be.

I tear off the lid and pour the contents into my eyes. It feels good. Makes my eyes feel like caffeinated fireballs. Tried drinking it before, doesn't do no good. It only makes the thoughts louder and more active. Like a daredevil baby on coke in my head. I just want it to stop. It does. For a short while. What a while it is. The old nuisance pops into my room to harass me about the two month behind payment on my rent. She stops herself and screams. I yell at her to leave and that she'll get it soon. She calls me a freak. I should be offended. Heard worse. My pupils burned a while longer. I try to cry when the burning stops, but not from the coffee in my eyes. I fail.

#

Been a few days since that joyous cup of coffee. Yeah, joyous. That's what that was, I think. Finally paid the lady the rent yesterday. I didn't do it out of any desire to stay here. Been to plenty of cheap apartments in my time as a slowly rotting, shambling body. Just to get her to leave me alone and be quiet. I like loneliness. That's a lie.

I go to the bookstore. I walked all the way there. It's about a mile and a half away. I don't care. I like the strain it puts on my legs. The way it makes my muscles ache. It's a good sensation.

I grab the first hefty book I find. It's some cooking book. I walk in a hurry to the front counter. Don't want any interaction. The lady at the front disappoints me on that.

She asks if that's all. I say yes and how much. She says 8.50 but has to ask me something else. She asks if I'm having anyone over. I tell her why she would wonder something like that. She says that I have a big recipe book. Figures I'm having to cook for someone. I tell her I have nobody and that it's not important why I'm buying it. Says she was just trying to pass the time. I tell her I, and no one else asked her to do that, nor does anyone appreciate it. I don't mean it. Just want to be sure she stops talking to me.

There is a good part to this whole thing. She gives me a hard slap on the face after I say that. It's a good smack. Not those puny bitch smacks I've gotten before. One of those that leave an imprint on your skin for a few minutes after. It felt so nice. I don't let her know that as she tells me to take the book and fuck off.

As I walk back to the apartment, some thought passes me. I may have been harsh to that lady. I think I should feel bad about it. I don't feel like asking anybody on that.

I make it to my apartment and the old hag asks what took me so long. I tell her to shut up and walk past her. Walking up the stairs, my legs still feel that nice aching the whole way. I make it to my room and toss the book on the rickety bed.

I grab at it with both hands, ripping the pages out. I grab a bundle of them and begin slashing the sheets of paper against my skin. I've never tried this before. It feels nice. The sensation of cutting a bit into my flesh and feeling that blood trail down my arms. This is the pleasure I seek. This is what I felt with that cup of coffee days ago.

Yet, as with the coffee, it's short lived. I lay in bed, blood dripping down both arms. I stare at the ceiling and watch the spider crawl around. Yeah, there's a spider in my room. There was two cockroaches when I arrived. Think the spider ate them. Either that, or the old hag got to them first.

All spiders do is spin their houses, catch food, and stumble through the world in damn near blindness. I guess I see the appeal for some. Wonder if living as one would be any different than how life is.

#

I'm about to walk out of the apartment the next day. The old hag is there. She screams. She asks what happened to me. I tell her nothing she needs to worry about. Hope she'll drop it. She doesn't.

She looks as if she's about to cry. Comes around the corner of the booth, grabbing a card from her desk. She walks up to me. I try to walk away. She grabs my collar. Says I need to see someone. Hands me the card and walks out the building, covering face. I look at it. It's an address to a therapy group. Doesn't appear to be that far away. Across from that garbage burger place. Said their food was soul lifting. It was just slightly juicier artificial schlop. I don't want to go, but worried the lady will keep harassing me otherwise. Decide to drop prior visit that I was looking forward to. Figure I can feel the nice sensation of aching legs again, if nothing else.

I sit at a chair across from three dingy looking men and a woman holding a clipboard. There's a nice funk in the air. That unbathed human smell. It gives a nice aroma. It's a tidy, dark room, illuminated by three lights in a row above our heads.

After sitting through one of the guys' spiel about how his girlfriend for 3 years left, the lady turns to me. She seems taken by my expression. I ask if there's something on my face. She says nothing and asks why I'm here. I tell her why she thinks I'm there. Tries to laugh off my comment. I don't laugh back. It was a genuine question. I don't know why I'm here.

She asks about my life. I tell her why does it matter. Says she can't help if I don't open up.

I tell her I've been boxing the past few years of my life. It was the best days. The pain I took from each punch to my body was heaven to me. Not that I think such a place exists, cause if it does, I know I won't be there. Just making a point. It made me feel alive like very few things manage to do anymore. Two weeks ago, a doctor told me that it was all affecting my brain's functionality. Warned if I don't stop, may be permanent damage. I wonder if the damage explains why I am what I am.

I tell the lady I have no idea how long I've been how I am. I don't remember if I was like this before my boxing or not. I took it to escape something. Whether it was my current state or otherwise, couldn't say. The days go by like nothing, and the few nice feelings with them.

I tell her that some days I just lay in bed. Lay there for hours. Even when I'm not tired. Can't think of things to do sometimes. I stop talking. The whole time I say all that, I hear writing on paper. That's when I know she doesn't care. I think that I could've told her to stop and pay attention. Didn't have it in me to.

She says that the problem is that I don't realize what I have. "There are people who care." (the few that did are long dead) "There is still more for you here." (not anymore than there is for anyone else) "You can't let your mind get away from you like that." (I don't know what this means) "Perhaps you just need a way to exercise your talents." (never had any) "You're worth a whole lot more than you let yourself think." (I've never thought that) "You just need to let people see you, as you are."

This lady doesn't understand. Not that I thought she would. Some stupid part of me still hopes, with quiet tears. Don't know why. I think about detesting her for not being able to help me. About strangling her in her chair, or bashing her face with her own clipboard. I think that will make this whole thing worth it. It won't. I wonder if anything would.

I remember that I have to be somewhere. I ask if I can go. She asks if it can wait. It can't. I have to be with a family member. I haven't seen them in a while. They invited me to come see them. I tell her it's what I was going to do before I was dragged here. I don't want to miss the chance. They need me. I need them.

I don't. Nobody does. My family's dead. I just want to get out of this room. I want to leave these people and their problems. I feel nothing here. I ask again if I can go. Begrudgingly, she says I can. She begs me to come again soon, tomorrow if possible.

I won't. I head to the dump, as I planned, for the intoxicating scent of rot and waste. Those things are all that helps. All that can give me pleasure. I think that's what I feel. I don't know anymore.