After All, It's Nothing.

TW: Suicide and self-harm, sexual violence, mental health and substance abuse.

14. I was 14 when he looked at me. When he eyed me down as if I was an object to devour, to indulge in. As if he had the right, as if he was deserving of regarding me. His eyes flared like a demon from hell, burning, smoldering my skin with his dirty glare. My soul tainted in disgust, ashamed to parade my body, to believe for even a second I could step out of the confines made of cotton and silk and simply be. I wonder if his wife knows. If she attests to his actions, approves of the way he stares at an innocent girl old enough to be his granddaughter. His hand is a disease, melting my surface to extinction, but it's subtle. It's nothing. He pollutes me with his presence and I’m left speechless. I stay silent and smile, after all, it's nothing. Behind closed doors however, I break. I shatter and convulse, bending to a version of myself unimaginable to anyone but my nightmares. An unspoken torment, heavy chains dragging my skin away from chastity. I’m not a child anymore. My body has changed, shifted to the image of what one would consider a true woman. But no one warned me. My mother never told me how I’d be scrutinized walking down the street. My father never prepared me for the walls I’d have to build, for the tears I’d spill over stupid comments and hurtful gazes. I’d never been told how repulsing I would feel, how bile would build up on my tongue as I showered his eyes away, as I tried to fade his stain on my skin with my hands, rubbing and reddening it, hoping the ache would drive it away. But I can only smile softly, dismiss my discomfort. I can only contort and bow to his will. After all, it's nothing.

I was 15 when he spoke to me. When he deluded me into his own twisted ideals. When he manipulated me, pulled my strings until I would finally pull my clothes off. A goddess is what he called me, what he uttered as I almost gave myself to him through the phone screen. But I didn’t. And he made me pay. A mistake, I'm told. One he’ll make sure I regret. With no mercy, he raptured a part of me. A part I will never get back. Snacthed it away greedily and moved on to the next. It's easy to do such a thing, for him, at least. After all, it's nothing. My legs were his pathway to glory, my arms the support to his supremacy, my chest a reliever to his agony. All for him, all was a sacrifice for him. Had I known human beings possessed the ability to harm, to damage with a flick of their fingers, I would’ve shut myself out long ago. Instead, I went through the pain, the agonizing calamity of ruining myself. But my pain is no matter, a trifling dilemma really. Is that why you walk with your head held high? Why you have the blessing of waking up every morning to persecute yet another undeserving soul? Most wouldn't know the damage you've caused, the repugnant, shameless monster that lies within. But I know. I am the witness to your transgression. The living, breathing proof that cultivates the question of whether you should even be standing on this earth. I am a storm, a raging fire begging to implode and smolder his heart with my rage. But I don't. In fact, I never did. I stayed silent, after all, it's nothing.  

I was 16 years old when he claimed my lips. When he devoured my conscience, obscured my morals and tattooed my most intimate parts. He washed away all that built me like heavy rain, created a kingdom in which fear reigned victorious. A dictatorship that dominated my body, a hurricane passing by, snatching and ripping my honor away. The sweet nothings he whispered were but lies, broken promises now torn up and scrambled in an ocean of anguish. No one prepared me for how this would feel, for how most people are barbarians, sadistic savages camouflaged in the midst of society, ready to carve out my heart with sharp nails as knives. I feel broken, breathless just standing in this world. I can only discern disappointment among the turmoil inside my head. How the world has failed. Failed to save me. And yet, not even I save myself from this void I drown in. I am unable to, so instead, I accept it. Endless tears overwhelm my eyes, screams suffocate the air as I die alone on my cold bathroom floor. My body aches from the inside out, begging to tune out the memory of him. To forget the notes he played on my skin, to forget the music he composed with his tongue. But I can’t. I can’t forget that he soothed my being, then stepped all over it like mere dust on the road. So I have to bear that weight, carry it with me throughout the passage of time, hoist that burden until I take my last breath. I have to stay silent, docile and accepting. Who cares if I’m killing myself from the inside out? After all, it's nothing. 

I was 17 when we met. When he ravaged me, promised me a future together despite our youth. How he sang sweet songs of love, an illusion of a real-life romance novel. But what I forgot is that they are novels for a reason. Unreachable standards. Mere Fantasies. Dreams we pretend to reach, to crave and treasure and desire. Truth is no one wants that. No one wants you once you're dirty. Stained and disgusting in their eyes. Used. But no one will ever feel more disgusted than myself. No one will ever understand what it's like to wish to slice up your skin like meat, to want to wrap your hands around his neck and watch as his lips turn purple and life drains away from his eyes. To wish you were never born, to wish you could undo your mistakes. To wish you had the courage to say no. He was angelic, the personification of perfection. But there can be no light without dark. A family guy is what his friends called him. How he wished to have a home in the suburbs, maybe three or four kids. A garden with roses and daisies and tulips to expand our ever growing domain of two souls enamored. What he wanted was what mattered, and so I obliged. I gave into his hopes, his desires and cut the hands that were holding together the flawless glass that built us. It wasn't enough. It is never enough. And so we convulsed, finally and utterly broke. If only my waist was thinner, or my voice a little sweeter. If only my face was clearer and legs a bit slimmer. If only I was smart, but not anymore than him. Strong enough to stand my ground, but not enough to overshadow him. Confident enough to support his dreams, but not enough to chase after my own. But, god, I wish I did. I wish I said no. I wish he didn't yank my most vulnerable parts away. Maybe then, I wouldn't have been left to die. Maybe then, I wouldn't have let myself bleed. Hurt. Ache. Maybe then, he would've loved me sufficiently enough to stay. But it's a trifling dilemma, truly. A meaningless bother. An unsolved perplexity. After all, it's nothing.

I was 18 when I broke. When I believed I wasn't enough. When I aimlessly walked home alone one night. I didn't see him. Didn't notice his distasteful eyes. It's always those goddamn eyes. All attempts of escape were futile. His eyes were a vision of pure malice and viciousness. There was nothing else, no misunderstanding, no anger, no regret. Just mere lust. My screams were silenced, my body immobile, an exposed statue for his simple contentment. My throat shouted, gasped and gagged through the pain, through the relentless assault. No one would save me. A sweatshirt. I wore a sweatshirt, yet that sufficed him, yet that was enough to tempt him. Could it be my fault? His expression contorted into one of hunger, a river flowing with an unstoppable current, relentless in its attack. A vicious, animalistic smirk that was requisitioned to suck me dry. His teeth grinned in a barbaric manner, saliva dripping from his greedy mouth as he corrupted me, as he painted my canvas pitch black, darkening my soul for eternity. I forced my eyes closed, begging for this to end, for me to lose consciousness and wake up from this hell. That's all I can do. Stay still and wait as he exploits my figure in perpetuity. No end in sight. But alas, it's finally over, the sting of my body, the burn of my throat and agony of my bruises welcomes me as I arise alone on the empty alleyway. One wrong turn, one unwelcomed gaze was all it took for me to be changed forever. Marked with a permanent sense of anxiety. A parasite that will gradually consume me. I attempt to screech and shriek for anyone to help me. For anyone to relieve me of this intolerable throbbing. I wish to yell out to the world, to force the man to pay, to avenge my lost innocence. To get myself back. But it's no matter how much I scream, how much strength I use as I pray for the world to listen as I plead my case. The heavens above shame me, mock me in their constant silence, not uttering a sound. I’m alone. Alone as I eradicate this damaged world, vaporize the injustices faced by more individuals than I can count. People that have had their lips imprisoned, their voices in purgatory. A blade of atrocity slices my vocal cords away, rips them out with unforgiving fingers. A black hole sucks me away until I’m gone, all invisible to the naked eye. Banished. No one will ever notice, no one will ever know. They all think I’m crazy now. A madwoman, they whisper. They give me pills and medication in hopes of subduing me, of silencing me further. They never cared. I’m an annoyance. Maybe it was me being overdramatic, but if that was the case, why had I felt such agonizing pain? Whatever it may be, it doesn't matter anymore as I fade into the background. So I stay silent just as those before me have done, after all, it's nothing.          

I was 19 when it became too much to bear. When drugs and pills polluted my body in a fog of insanity, blurring the line between normality and illusion. I’m alone still, an on-going mess, forever scared by the actions of one merciless man. No, not a man. A monster, a humanized reincarnation of the devil, living and breathing with pride and sin. To this day, he is left unharmed, seen as innocent by those we rely on to deliver justice. He is praised on the ground he walks on, and I am dismissed as a nutcase, a lunatic that must be muted and restrained, bound in ropes and walls that take on the form of a silencer, shutting me up forever. There is far too much left unspoken, unexpressed. The little girl inside me wants to break into tears, to let myself suck in the cold air as I strip his transgression bare, for all eyes to witness. But I can’t. Like thousands, my story will be left unsaid. Soon, I’ll fade into history, never to be heard from again. A book, desperate for knowledge to share and express, burned and buried. Gone. I’ll no longer be asphyxiated by the reconnaissance of society. Of a damned world that has failed me. Failed us. And so I allow myself to rest, to put an end to the striking pain of my wrists. Of my mind and soul. To finalize my existence in nothing but utter tranquility. I am but a star, drifting off, blending and becoming one with the universe, going to a place where I’ll be healed. Where I won't be in pain.

My body bleeds out gently, my lashes fluttering my eyes closed. The ocean blue of my eyes, once a seething tempest, allows for a tear to escape, to wetten my pale cheek as my lips part, sucking in my final breath. I die alone in my apartment. My neighbor might knock on my door in a week or two, find me and bury me in a cemetery with no name. The day I was gazed at, a mere look one would think, yet it planted a disease in my veins. One which left my soul vulnerable, defenseless as it developed, overwhelmed my being. Every gaze, every touch, every kiss, every action, it all built up, shattered me like the porcelain doll I’ve become, the object I've been regarded as. It's nothing, after all. It's nothing, is what they say. But truth be told, I will not be the last to go. There will be yet another girl, an innocent soul, slowly corrupted and infected. A young woman with visions, dreams and desires, beautiful flaws that will bend her, consume her through the eye of the devil and execute her with what was supposed to subdue. Slaughter her as a sacrifice for another’s pleasure. She’ll be deflowered calmly throughout time, hurting softly until she’s lost sight of who she is. Until everything that made her, her, will be gone. Yet another monster will walk away unscathed, proud and ecstatic of his reprehensible accomplishment. But that girl won't matter and neither will the next. She’ll be buried like me, silenced through pills and layers of dirt. But this isn’t significant nor meaningful, but rather a minuscule matter. We are a nuisance. Overdramatic, emotional and bothersome. Alas, they are right, it's no big deal. After all, it's nothing.