Poisonous Love

Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation, abuse, self-harm

I wiped my clammy hands on my black skinny jeans, my blue eyes nervously scanning the scenery around me. I could barely appreciate the beauty of the warm summer’s day in the park I was waiting in, staring across the sea of perfectly manicured grass that was peppered with blooming trees and flowers. Despite the heat of the day, the park was oddly stagnant, without only a few stray wandering souls making their way through, yet none were the familiar face I was waiting for. This was a bad idea, I thought to myself, biting my lower lip as the nerves rattled my bones. Others had told me so, yet when he had reached out, I felt the undying need. I had dreamt of this moment over and over; it was the only way I was able to fall into the enchantment of sleep, to the comfort of closure. Though, my dream self had more confidence than what I felt currently. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, swiping the camera to once again critique what looked back at me. I had been struggling with food in my state of anxiety, finding no motivation to eat and what I did manage to force myself to swallow would usually find its way back out again in unceremonious fashion, leaving my already skinny frame with less than what it required. Bones poked out through my skin throughout my entirety as the skin pressed itself against my frame; and my face was no exception. Any and every bone jutted outward, making my cheekbones roll outwards like speed bumps on the road, making my face look sunken and worn beyond its youth. The skin itself, poorly hidden behind a veil of thin makeup, was pale and dry, except for the caverns beneath my tired, dull blue eyes, which had darkened and given me unfortunate shadows. My teeth had been at war with my lips, leaving it caked with dried blood, with specs of fresh blood dripping through from the wound of its latest assault. It was obvious my battle with the exhaustion that plagued me was winning by the aging it had done. I angrily clicked my phone shut, unable to bear the sad sight of myself, knowing no amount of tweaking and me up would fix my sorry appearance. As I glanced up, I saw that someone had approached me on the bench where I had resigned myself, causing me to startle and jump.

“Did I give you a fright?” He chuckled, his laughing hazel eyes staring down at me. I realized this friendly face was the one I had been waiting for. I felt the scars on my heart re-open and began to bleed their agony through me; stealing my breath with each painful pulsation. God, this was such a bad idea, I reiterated to myself. I cursed myself, for allowing this man to make me weak in such a way. He had no right to it; to me, after all the pain and suffering he had caused. I wanted to hate him with every fibre I had, yet I felt nothing but the yearning to dive headlong into his arms and drown myself in his essence. I fought it, with everything that I had, and managed a weak smile instead,

“I was just lost in thought,” I managed to say. He has no right. He doesn’t deserve my kindness. He looked well; faring much better than me after the break up; after the whole relationship, in fact. He stood only slightly taller than me, and had a broader frame, yet had obviously been working hard to avoid excess weight. His face was full, and laughing lines creased his face. His hair sat a nest of dirty blonde atop his head, teasing his eyebrows with a sweeping fringe. While I had spent hours trying to hide the signs of fatigue, he had had no need.

“What are you thinking about?” he prodded my shoulder playfully with his finger, and I pushed him away,

“You naked,” I quipped at him, entertained by his look of amusement and bewilderment. It was obvious he didn’t know whether to take the idea and run with it, or stop it in his tracks.

“Hmm, well, I don’t blame you,” he grinned, posing himself awkwardly,

“Damn, better start stripping,” I teased, and he rolled his eyes at me,

“You’ll just have to keep thinking it,” he returned, making me feel a little disappointed that he wouldn’t entertain it further. I laughed and lowered my eyes to my hands as I dug my nails into the palm of my hands,

“I’m sorry, you know,” I swallowed hard, not expecting the apology from him, not sure how to react,

“You were only a little bit late,” I joked weakly, hoping that filling the air around us with laughter would leave little room for tears instead, but he didn’t laugh. I felt him shift and adjust, moving closer to sit on the bench with me. I felt his warmth radiating against my body, and his smell washed over me, prodding at memories long since buried. A sense of dread resonated through her as they began to rise from their graves; as unwelcome as the undead. I attempted to hold onto reality as my mind started to spin, dragging me down into the whirlpool of remembrance.

The sound of pounding fists against a wooden door echoed through the graveyard of my mind and I was in that moment again, with my back against the cool of the door. I felt the drumbeat of the banging reverberating through my core. I whimpered softly, fear coursing through me, my heart beat racing the drumbeat rhythm. I hadn’t realised I had squeezed my eyes shut until I opened them again, finding everything in greyscale, except for the crimson liquid  that wept out of the slit in my wrist. I can hear the wind in the trees.

He was there as a phantom limb, his blunt nails digging into the soft flesh of my arm. I could taste his rage anew, even though it had long been deceased. I fought against him, trying to hide the wound that was sobbing on my wrist, but I knew it was futile. I could hear his muffled shouts in my head as I tried to hide mentally from the verbal onslaught. The words hit her subconscious, leaving cracks in my already fraying resolve. ‘Stupid. Bitch. You want to die then let me help you.’ I can feel the warmth of the sun against my skin.

I was falling through the air too slowly, my mouth agape in a silent scream. He stood in front of me as a blacked out silhouette with his arms outstretched towards me. I hit the mattress with a thud and time began again. Before I could move, I felt his weight on top of me, straddling my body and pinning me down, keeping me from being able to move. I writhe and warred against him, but to no avail, he weighed too much. He grabbed the pillow next to me and stuffed it into my face, drowning me in suffocating darkness. I can smell the freshly cut grass, and him. I can smell him close to me; his sweet sweat, his overpowering deodorant, him. He didn’t deserve this, but I did.  I was back in the present, the flashes having subsided and crawled back to the graves in which they had escaped. To him, it was a moment, to me it was forever. I breathed deeply, exhaling out as I allowed it to pass, remembering my calming techniques when the attacks happened. I hadn’t been diagnosed, but I knew enough to recognise the PTSD. I looked at him, seeing him and all his flaws.

“I’m not here for your apology,” I muttered; my heart stitching itself back together and healing into callouses.

“I know, nothing I can say will do or change anything. What I did was horrible, unforgiveable. I just wanted to let you know, I’m getting help. I never want to be that person again, to you or anyone. That’s not me, and I won’t let it. I got bad, I got real bad, in myself, and it just…blew up,” he was crying, though he was trying not to. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly wiped them away, but I noticed. I knew he was genuine, beyond his actions and his words, because I knew him, and I knew what happened. It wasn’t just one thing, one straw, one breaking moment, it was so much more. As easy as it would be to say, because what he did was beyond anything, but I wasn’t entirely the victim. I had pushed, and prodded, and abused back. I had thrown things, through verbal knives and inflicted the emotional wounds that pulled him apart and allowed the demon to seep out,

“I’m sorry too,” I smiled weakly at him, tears stinging my own eyes. We were toxic together, and our wounds would never heal properly from the poison of our love. I felt a weight lifting off me; the debilitating phantom limb that had anchored me in my depression being severed, “want to get something to eat? I’m starving.”