I did not want to write this out. I do not want to write this out. That’s the difference between me and other writers: I do not want to do this. The therapist said it would help. I call bull crap on that. “Journaling” is her key to emotional output. Punching a wall thirty times a day has the same effect on me as journaling does.
Let’s keep this between you and me, journal, person, God—whomever you are. I don’t need anyone to know I see a therapist. I don’t need my therapist to know I see a therapist. Of course, none of that will really matter after today.
It starts freshman year, as most problems do.
Let's just make something clear. I am not lonely. I just don’t have friends. I had better reword that. I don’t have best friends. I don’t have friends that I can call on a Saturday night and go throw rocks or whatever people do for fun. I have friends in the sense that someone texts me once in a while for the math homework.
To make things more confusing for you, journal, person, God—whomever you are, I have a group. They are the best group of people, but they are not my best friends. Why? They walked around downtown with nice cameras, 80’s jeans, and intelligent conversation. I lacked practically all of that. I write their names first on my body. I wish with all my heart that they were not there, but I cannot deny the ink.
A night. Oh, what a night. The last night. The last of it all. The Group and I walked around downtown. Them with their nice cameras, 80’s jeans, and intelligent conversation, and me with ten dollars in my back pocket and hope.
We found an art gallery filled with local artists. They talked about the meaning behind the paintings while I just stared into the oil clouds.
One person from the Group found another colorful group. We were introduced to this new group. I recognized all the older boys, dressed in intimidating leather jackets, denim, and button-ups. The sole girl of this group was a lesbian; they were a group because they walked downtown together looking for attractive women.
They invited us to a rooftop party.
Bad idea. It was screaming unsafe, illegal, and absolutely obscene. I was obstinate, though.
We merged together, creating a catastrophe as we headed towards the building. We took an elevator up. I got the honor of pressing the button.
A local band was playing music; the rooftop was lit with lights; people were drunk. I watched as the lesbian(I have no other way to identify her) pulled out a pipe and a bag of unidentifiable substance. Pretty soon the rooftop was pushing smoke to other buildings.
I took a seat on the ground. An intimidating button-up guy from the lesbian’s group sat down beside me, a traditional cigarette in his mouth. He offered me one and I politely declined, suddenly becoming aware of my virginity of many things. He chuckled at me and lit his, taking one drag from it, then threw it from the roof.
“I was never good at taking these things,” he started.
“I was never good at starting those things,” I continued.
Button-Up was cute. He was a smart talker, had a nice camera, no 80’s jeans, though. He made me laugh, convinced me to try a cigarette, which I coughed up. He gave me water that was not disguised vodka. He had his ways with me.
Pretty soon the rooftop started to fill up and more people started to steal our idea. Button-Up thought we should go downstairs. I brought a friend of sorts who had a Button-Up of her own, and the four of us went downstairs. We all talked some more, and we played a non-racy game of truth or dare.
Pretty soon my friend of sorts got into a heated kiss with her own Button-Up and they vacated the room, leaving me and my Button-Up alone. I immediately suggested going back upstairs to the roof, but he pulled me down next to him.
“Why the rush?” His voice was deep and mature, unlike any other guy. It was enticing; he was eloquent. This was why I let him kiss me.
I never wanted him to continue. I just wanted a start. As he was kissing me, I jumped to conclusions as any lovesick fifteen year old would do. I imagined how others would see my being with someone older, more mature. I pictured us falling in love and getting married.
Button-Up betrayed me. I write his name on my chest, near my heart.
The door to the room flung open and an intimidating leather jacket guy walked in. His tattooed body struck me as did his ring clad fingers.
“I thought I told you to leave her for me, Benson?” he yelled to Button-Up and pulled him from next to me and threw him against the door. Intimidating Leather Jacket Guy kicked him out of the room and locked the door on us. “You’re mine.” His breath reeked of some unidentifiable substance.
I pushed him away and quickly unlocked the door, running as fast as I could upstairs. He caught me. He wrapped his arms around my waist before I could reach the top of the stairs. I squirmed and writhed under His touch as He dragged us back to the room. I saw Button-Up lying in a lump with only his head up. He did nothing. I screamed. It did nothing. He had His way with me and kicked me out where Button-Up had last lain. He found me again; He had His way with me again.
The third time He left me bloodied. I sat for hours and eventually passed out, only to be awoken at three in the morning by the lesbian. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She only handed me a bottle of water, assuming I was hungover, and offered to drive me home. I didn’t speak, and I wouldn’t speak for a week. I wrote His name on my middle finger in all capital letters and Hers on my hand.
I look at my naked body now. It is peppered with bruises on my thighs and arms. I did not hide this matter from my parents. They found the bruises and I told them what had occurred and how many times it had occurred. That was why I saw the therapist. That was why they called me depressed. They gave me a name for my bruises and His misuse of my body. I believed it. I believed I was depressed rather than infuriated with how weak I was.
I scribble one more name now in red ink. I look in the mirror as I write my own name on my forehead. I make sure to use good handwriting. When I die today, I do not want them to think that I have bad handwriting.
I count the names on my body. Ten names on my naked body. The same number of bruises that He burned onto me with His sinful ways.
I found Him and shot Him in the main streets of the city. Pure, volatile hate is what drew me to pull the trigger on Him. I didn’t care if I went to jail. Send me to jail now. It will never take away the power I felt when I saw Him get what He deserved. The relief and cold sweat that brimmed my face and body when I saw Him clutch His chest and topple over. Nothing can top that, and nobody can stop me now. I didn’t shed a tear. We don’t need a world full of sick, weak people like me. They don’t need to hear my silent, blood curdling scream anymore. No one wanted to listen to it in the first place.
Shh. Listen. Sirens.
Well, that is all for today, folks! This has been my first and last journal entry. Maybe I’ll be reincarnated as a rabbit or elephant. I sign this entry with my tears as I prepare my rope. I would like to leave this world with a message, a message of hope for all those out there who are human. Don’t be afraid to scream. Nobody is listening anyway.