Part of the story

This story contains mentions of suicidal ideation and alcohol abuse. Please take care while reading.

“You know what? I’m done with this shit. I refuse to subject myself to this awful situation anymore.” I stand up, adjust my jacket a bit, grab my bag, and leave my parents’ flat. I don’t even feel the need to slam the door behind me. I do it anyway, for good measure.

As I walk towards the metro station, I think about the dumbfounded look on my mother’s face. I can still hear my brother’s annoying voice in my ear. He’s always complaining about what I do, what I say, how I say it. I’m simply done with it. I’ve left them behind.

I’m lucky today, there aren’t any weird or smelly people on the metro with me. Just a young guy in front of me who’s staring at my boobs. I glare at him, curse him with my eyes, shoot lightning through my pupils, but he doesn’t even notice. Whatever. Fuck, what was I just thinking? I feel like I just had a brilliant thought, maybe even an original one, but it’s gone already.

Maybe I’m losing my mind. Like my grandmother did. I wonder when she knew. I remember her often talking about her friends who were showing signs of dementia. It made her sad, but more than anything, it terrified her. I remember the look on her face. She was worried. Could she already feel her memories escaping her? Her personality has slipped away long ago now. She’s not herself. She doesn’t even look like herself. It’s as if she’s shrunk. Her brain actually did shrink, maybe her bones too. Is my grandmother dead, if I can still hold her hand? Her eyes don’t recognize anything anymore. As far as she knows, it’s as if she never existed, never loved, never lost a newborn baby, never left the country she grew up in, never taught maths to teenage girls, never raised children and grandchildren. What’s it all worth, if she can’t remember any of it? She’s not anybody to herself.

Shit, I missed my station. I run out of the train at the next one, and climb the escalators. Now I can’t wait to be home. Not that I really enjoy my flat. It doesn’t exactly feel like home either. But what else should I call it? I do live there after all. I sleep there, eat fast food messily at my desk, and occasionally study. It’s also the place I go to avoid my flatmate. It’s not that I dislike her, I just don’t enjoy her company. She avoids me too, anyway. When we cross paths, I think we both feel obliged to exchange pleasantries. “How was your day?” I don’t want to talk about it, and I can tell by the vacant look in her eye that she couldn’t care less anyway. But I answer politely, and ask how she’s doing. She starts complaining about a million tiny things, and I have to force my eyes not to roll to the back of my head. All the way to the back. They might get stuck there for good if I’m not careful.

No, Stacy, I don’t care about your back ache, or your dry flaky scalp, or your friend who you bake cakes for at seven in the morning on weekends. I don’t even care about your granddaughter, although she seems cute. And yes, I’m sorry I left hair in the shower, I try not to, but it’s a bit hard as it’s been coming out in clumps lately.

“You look tired”, she says. I fucking hate it when people say that to me. I force a smile on my face: “Yes, I’ve been a bit stressed lately”. That’s one way to put it. I daydream about ending it all. I quickly wrap up the conversation with dreadful Stacy, and go hide in my bedroom.

I take my pants off, and lie on the bed. Out of habit, I grab my phone and unlock it. I have missed calls from both my parents, and my brother. And texts. So many texts. I had almost forgotten about my angry exit from Sunday lunch earlier. I ignore the calls and texts. They’re furious. How dare I leave in the middle of a family meal. It was very rude. My mother had spent the entire morning cooking for us. She was now inconsolable, my father let me know.

But I feel numb now. I’m done. I said it, and I meant it. I don’t want to be responsible for their feelings anymore. I don’t want to make myself, my life experiences or my emotions smaller to suit them anymore. I’m done with this shit.

I roll to my side, and slide a hand below the pillow. I never thought I’d stand up to them, and yet I did. I didn’t even decide to, I feel like it just happened. It had been boiling under my skin for a very long time, and it simply exploded all over my mother’s pretty Sunday table today.

It has felt impossible for so long. Now it’s done. And I don’t feel anything. Why can’t I feel anything?

Is it the antidepressants maybe?

I must have fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes next, the sun has set. I look at my phone, still ignoring all communication from my family. “Girl, are you down to go out tonight?” Lily texted me an hour ago. I quickly text back that I had fallen asleep, but I’d love to go drinking if she’s still into it. The green dot magically appears next to her name, I have successfully summoned her. “Let’s get shitfaced”. Fuck yes.

I jump out of bed, quickly shower my body, messily tie what’s left of my hair at the top of my head. It’s ugly, but I don’t care about anything anymore. I put on a slutty little black dress. So far, it has a perfect track record at parties. Please don’t let me down tonight.

Lily and I go to a bar, order cocktails, get free shots from strangers. They aren’t very good looking, so we leave, go to a club. We dance, our bodies let loose. We drink more, touch strangers and each other. I like her body, and I know she likes mine too. But I’ll go home with that cute guy who’s been staring at me. I stare back. He comes over, we dance. It’s more of a mating ritual to be honest. Everybody’s doing it, I feel no shame. I’m not self conscious anymore, the alcohol has taken care of that for me. I do feel slightly nauseous though, but I’ll focus on his tongue in my mouth and his hands all over me. Lily has found herself someone too. We get out of the crowded club, and the cold air feels like a lovely slap on both of my cheeks. I can feel them turning red. I give my dress a tug to cover my body a bit more. Lily says goodbye, and stumbles away with her catch. Mine puts his arm around my shoulders, and we start walking towards his flat. “It’s close”, he says. I nod. I don’t care. He could take me anywhere. I just don’t want to think. Not about my mother’s sad face. Not her tears, not her accusing tone. Not the lost look in her eyes when she talks about her fading mother.

We’re in his bed now, I’m naked on top of him. We’re fucking, and the room is also spinning. He grunts, groans, I hear myself moaning. I feel some pleasure, maybe. But things aren’t very clear. I’m smoking at his bedroom window, looking at the city lights. He stands behind me, ties his hands around my waist. But his touch is unbearable now. The alcohol is wearing off. “I have to go, sorry. Early morning tomorrow”. He’s upset, tries to convince me to stay. I refuse, gather my scattered clothes. “I see, you’re one of those girls. Just using guys for sex.”

I pull my dress down. Its sluttiness bothers me now. I tell him that he’s right, I’m a villain. An awful seductress. I should throw myself off a cliff. He’s angry, but I’m not listening anymore. I slam the door. Lots of slamming today.

I won’t throw myself off a cliff. I’ll get help. Maybe someday, I’ll feel well-rested and satisfied again. I used to, I think. My family and I will understand or at least accept each other. Pieces of me are missing, that’s the issue. That’s why I can’t bear to hear my thoughts, yet they’re the only thing that exist. But someday, this will all be an unpleasant memory. A time I could have done without. But part of the story anyway.