Apathy.

“Tonight's 'Talking Points' memo: Was Hitler onto something about mandatory IDs for non-Christians, and how can Donald Trump learn from it?”

*click*

“How not caring enough about EVERY tragedy makes you no better than the terrorists themselves, more at 11.”

*click*

“Another shooting has occurred in Colorado and Texas, see why liberals are stopping our lone hero with a gun from showing up and putting a stop to these violent crimes and how the irony is completely lost on us because our gun laws already don't exist he--”

*click*

“I thoroughly believe that every white cis person in this country is a part of the problem, whether they're aware of it or not. It's not my job to educate them on their ignorance, only to condemn them for their stupid--”

*click*

“See how entitled millennials are while we sabotage their future because of how badly we've fucked up. Yes you can say 'fuck' on television no--”

*click*

No more of that for me, my heart can't take it. Is it okay? Do I have to feel ashamed for not caring about everything as much as other people? Because it sure as Hell feels like I should. Lately whenever I talk to people, the only thing that comes to mind is how much I'm not caring about whatever happened in some distant country I will never go to, about some child getting shot to death again for the fortieth time, or the ever-collapsing black hole of rational thought also frequently referred to as the American political system.  And I don't mean a singular child dying repeatedly.  Does that happen?  There would either have to be some incredible science or fucked-up witchcraft to be making that shit happen. 

I mean, it's not like I don't want to care. But it's just so gosh-darn difficult to. Let's examine one small instance where this came into play. FACEBOOK.  People remember the attacks that occurred in Paris. I mean to this day, I still really don't care to think about the details, but it happened. People died, and it was sad, yes. But a few things that I noticed. ...a few select groups of people were getting upset because others were either using a flag filter for their profile picture in remembrance, or because it was apparently stealing Lebanon's tragedy thunder when something or another blew again in there for the umpteenth time. This entire experience was enlightening to me, the impassive viewer. You know what it taught me?

Fuck people who care too damn much, and fuck their FEELINGS.

Empathy is something that is seriously overburdened in this day and age where everybody should care about everything and we should all be strong and open-minded individuals and should strive for social equality and the such, blahblahblah. If you don't care, you're contributing to the problem. Because we cared about the attacks in Paris, it contributed to the problem of the westernization of social media since we're not paying attention to other regions in the world that simultaneously were awash with grief at the same time. Like Lebanon. Or for the people mocking the others who were too busy chasing Lebanon's ambulance to notice, Kenya where somebody shot up a university and killed 148 people, because we ALL remember that on the news. Oh, I can get more, it's not difficult. In this day and age of over-exposure to every shitty event occurring all around the world? You bet your fucking ass that we can go further down the rabbit hole.

Instead though, let's take a healthy dose of “not give a fuck” and take this: just because you can care about something, doesn't mean you should. Empathy is a finite resource. It's the reason a secondary stress disorder like compassion fatigue exists. People get burnt out on their feelings, when they're forced to care too much too often. A lawyer has to deal with a man who just lost his daughter in a car accident; to the man, that's like trying to navigate an issue during the worst day of your fucking life. To the lawyer, it's Tuesday. And to the news, it's every day.

In this day of the internet, everything is faster. Gathering of information, networking, everything is sleeker, better, immediate. Unless you use Century Link, in which case it randomly drops and slows down. But we have a generation, the millennials, raised on this information superhighway. But the issue with that is that for people seeking a cause to rally behind, they quickly learn how much of a problem it is. Media outlets make it that much faster and easier to get information to you, and to a generation diagnosed with ADD, overexposure occurs. And if there's anything to take from what I'm going to say that is absolutely true, this will be it:

Overexposure to the media only breeds two things. It's either apathy, or contempt.

If you are bombarded with information relentlessly long enough, you're going to go numb to cope, or it's going to breed that cynical, malicious fire and it's going to consume you. Why the Hell else would people get upset over a fucking flag backdrop on Facebook when people are just trying to memorialize an event? It becomes a switch people can't turn off, where they look for the cause, the fight in everything that they can look for a fight in, where they look for the negative connotations. What paranoid, fucked-up, hateful world have you created in your head-canon where complacency or ignorance is misconstrued as malicious intent?

Simply put: why am I condemned for not caring enough? What is enough? Not everybody has time for that shit. I gots shit to do. Like sifting through pornography or posting Star Wars spoilers on the Splatoon Miiverse.

It can take something really fucked to make somebody realize the mistake they've made when caring too much about something. It's easy to put your empathy in a statistic or a news article; it's fucking easy to empathize with Lebanon when it's not at any of your actual empathetic expense. Once it gets personal though, that shit ain't so easy now is it? How many times have you seen somebody bring up a tragedy in their life, or post about it online, and you just offer your courtesy care? “Don't worry, if you need anything, I'm here to talk” you say. Then that person's now in your life, talking about all the terrible shit that's happened, and whenever something goes wrong again, you have to put up with that person again. Like when you find out that they lost their job. Or their girlfriend broke up with them. Or a family member died. Or they got mayo on their sandwich when they said 'no mayo', oh the humanity of it all! Then you go “Shit, this empathy crap is harder than I thought. I didn't actually care, I was just trying to be nice.” Oh, but you would NEVER say that, right?

Listen, it's okay not to care about people. It's okay not to care about things. It doesn't make you a bad person. People only have so much real estate for empathy. Not everybody has it in them to care about every single fucking terrible event that happens in the world. That person you're just sort of friends with, you don't have to let them into your life and place serious personal value in them if they're not important enough. You aren't a villain for it. Your empathy deserves to be taken care of and respected by other people for what it's used for. Apathy isn't necessarily evil, sometimes it's being your shield keeping out all that awful shit from making you want to kill yourself.

Care about what you can to the extent you can, it's not someone else's place to tell you what it should be and how much.

Unless it's something really fucking stupid like being an MRA. Fuck those guys.

Closure.

Okay, so I just feel like saying something here. I haven't written in a while, so I'm probably going to be scraping the bottom of the barrel for things to say. Today at work I had a rather surreal moment where I was doing stocking. Being a cog in the jumbling retail machine, I was putting out Easter merchandise while Santa Baby was playing over the speaker system. The only thought I had at that moment was “If the cognitive dissonance was any stronger, I would be able to bend time with my mind.” But right, let's talk about suicide. That seems appropriate for this time of the year, doesn't it? Might seem a bit of a dark subject, so let's brighten it up with something. Like kittens. Except instead you're thinking of suicidal kittens and I've now just injected the most horrifying and depressing imagery possible into your head. Alright, nevermind. But stay with me, there's more to this.

I have a tremendous talent of being incapable of understanding the effect I have on people, the aura of subdued apathy and depression I seem to emit. I'm desensitized to a lot of the things that have occurred in my life and whatever bleak outcomes they'll have, but I tend to forget that the average person is not. So if I nonchalantly bring up that I'm going to be alone on Christmas, that's a bit depressing to the listener. If I bring up that I haven't seen my mother in what's going on seven years because she's an alcoholic that's become consumed by addiction, then that's extremely depressing to the listener. If I bring up how starting from my birthday that the following week is probably the hardest week of the year for me because on top of shitty birthdays and divorce/poor person-related events that I tried to commit suicide a week before Christmas a decade or so ago, that isn't depressing to the listener because at that point they've probably left. Whoops.

Now let's talk about my mother. Let's get the crass, blunt comment out of the way first: I don't care about the fate of this woman. There are two reasons it's relevant, though. The first is that it will give closure to everybody if this woman died. Ever have those moments? Let's draw some parallels here with far more trivial situations that in no way bare similar weight but can still warrant comparison. Little Billy has a crush on Amanda at school. Every day he wonders how she feels about him, if he has a shot at getting into her pants, if it can work, when would be the right “friend moving into SO” time period to ask, all of that. But instead he doesn't do anything, he just goes home and masturbates and never gains any resolution on the topic and never brings it up with her for a long time. Then when he finally does, the cunt shoots her down and Little Billy is heartbroken. But despite the pain of having his heart broken, he doesn't have to worry about that stupid shit anymore and the realizes that he's still in school and can wait until college to get some pus—okay this is getting derailed, but the point is that even with a grim resolution, the feelings of ambiguity, concern, doubt, and questions are answered, that's not taking your time up anymore. You can stop stressing over the outcome of shit if it just happens, and even if it ends poorly it's done.

Closure is the word that's important here, which is the second point. I will seek closure for what has transpired in my life from her. I don't expect her to accept responsibility, I don't expect to forgive her, I don't expect it to motivate her to fix her life. That is none of my business. It shouldn't have to be. But people carry baggage that they didn't deserve to be burdened with, and I'm giving it back to the person who made me stuck with it. They can either carry it with me or let it crush them to death. With all the skeletons I've kept in my closet over the years, can you realistically expect a broken person who can't even fix things under normal circumstances pull themselves together when they've been given an immeasurable amount of guilt, hatred, and regret to deal with? Probably not. If my mom is anything like me, then she won't. I know I don't have the constitution to carry this shit; I've been trying for half of my life and it's already almost killed me several times. It's been said that what doesn't kill you makes yourself stronger. To somebody who's struggled with and attempted suicide many times in his life, what that means is that he's going to try a bit harder the next time he considers it until he gets to the point that he succeeds.

In a lot of fundamental ways, people don't change. But that doesn't mean they can't. My mother did not change, and it's killing her for it, slowly and agonizingly in a fucked-up, twisted way of karmic retribution. Hell, most people in my family have not changed, and if they did, it's long after the damage was done. My uncle managed to save himself from drug and alcohol addiction, but his clock is ticking and his time is close to being up. It's easy to be wrapped up in embittered cynicism and say that people don't change, but most of the time those people either haven't been gripped with the disease of depression, or that they're unaware that it's the demon that's killing them. What I have is a disease. I have no choice but to change. It's a cancer of the soul, the ever-present hollow noise, the ever-looming cloud that needs to be parted. Adapt or die, that's the ultimatum here.

And my brother holds this philosophy and told me to prove him wrong or he'll have a good laugh that he was right, which by proxy that means “stay alive” because he'll be right if I drop dead and smother out this pointless existence on my own terms, and he'll have a tough crowd to crack some jokes at. Well, that's not true, I'm not having a funeral, I don't understand that shit. If people want to pay respects to me, they can do it on their own time. Don't have a gathering around my corpse and think that does anything, I've moved out of that house already. The hell do you expect me to do, shake your hand and nod approvingly because somebody has their hand up my ass puppeteering me beneath the coffin?

Okay, what I'm trying to tell you folks is... I don't know, go fuck yourself and YOLO or some shit. People die, several of them by their own volition. People will fuck up their own lives irreparably and things will never get fixed, and the only closure you'll get is the knowledge of them failing completely, learn to live with it. But that advice is to the people watching. To the person living that, cling onto that tiny hope that you can change what kind of ugly, selfish, useless fuck-up you are and turn things around, even if the time and effort required will be what kills you.

Because if you're anything like me, you will always hate yourself. But learn to hate yourself enough to want to change, but not enough to think that things can't be turned around.

Merry fucking Christmas, you unfortunate and hopeless pricks.

Anger.

Mommy's gone missing and didn't take you with her. Ice cream falling off the cone onto the ground on a hot summer day. Seeing the new toy in the store that mommy wouldn't buy for fear of spoiling you. That mean kid kicking over your blocks and he didn't get in trouble. Getting too much homework in the class you hate. Going to bed at 10pm. Being grounded because you got a D in a class. Your older brother hitting you for stealing his Game Boy to play it without his permission. The pack of girls at school laughing at you for your acne and as soon as you look at them they try to stifle their giggles because they don't even have the decency to laugh at you in your ugly face.

Mommy getting drunk and keeping you up the night you have a test at school the following morning that you need to pass or you fail the class. Being forced out the house to play while mom and dad talk about how she overcharged the credit card again and we're going to lose the house now.

Having to awkwardly talk to the police about how mom got a bruise on her forehead and why dad is bleeding from his hip while both parents try to guilt-trip you into believing the other. Mom won't love you anymore if you don't believe her, dad will leave if you don't believe him. Listening to the bile your mother spew while she cleans up the house and how your father is the cause of everything wrong in your life. Remaining silent out of fear of getting the living Hell beaten out of you. Moving and losing all your friends because your family couldn't keep things together.

Wanting to have your girlfriend over but you're too ashamed of your family to introduce her, so you don't.

“How bad can your parents be?” she asked.

“I just don't want to complicate things.” you respond.

“Can't I sleep over once?”

“They'd make a scene.”

“Are they that unreasonable?”

“Hey, how about I meet your parents?”

“Point taken, new subject.” Her parents were worse and her father drunkenly knocked her from room to room. Staring at her pale beautiful face tarnished with a bruise below her ice-blue eye. Wanting to tell her things that will be okay, but knowing your words will come across as naive and empty because you don't know everything.

Being held down and stripped, and stripped of your dignity and sense of safety. Not being able to tell other people about it because you're just one social outcast afraid of the entire network of assailants catching wind of it, and because nobody would believe you as a result.

Your girlfriend growing concerned and depressed. Becoming overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame at the slightest sexual provocation. Wanting to talk to her about what your intimacy fears stem from because you're not implying she's unattractive, but you can't so she thinks that anyway.

“...I know I don't dress or see myself particularly well.” she said.

“That... that's not it. That has nothing to do with this.”

“You know how hard it is for me to be assertive with these sorts of things.”

“Don't even get me started.”

“And when I finally want to, this is what happens.”

“Well, I just...”

“Don't find me attractive?”

“No, dammit. It's not that, I said it's not that.”

“...is there actually somebody else? Somebody better?”

“What, NO.”

“Then where is this all coming from?”

“I...”

“Something's happened and you're not telling me.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Learning that she's been distant after coping with the death of her mother and didn't bother telling you until weeks after it happened. Not being able to tell her you're hurt in a rational manner. Letting the situation escalate that much.

"...We're in trouble, aren't we?" you ask.

"Probably."

"...I don't think we're going to make it."

"...Probably."

Watching her walk into her house out of your life and wanting to stop her but realizing you shouldn't.

"I'll see you around." you say.

"Alright."

Lying on the bathroom floor after throwing up and being incapable of getting up because of the vicodin whiplash. Thinking how big of a fucking loser you must be that you couldn't even kill yourself properly. Wondering how you can take things this seriously at 16 years old as you lay sprawled out in a daze. Having your mother come home and be none the wiser. Nevermind, she noticed that some of the vicodin's gone missing and that you should lie to your doctor to get more. Resentment at being forced to move, despite not being able to rationalize why you'd want to stay in the first place because of the personal Hell that was created at that town, at that school. Well it was personal, familiar, even if it wasn't necessarily safe.

Having your mom stop showing up to work just because she felt like drinking and didn't bother calling in so she loses her job and one anchor of stability again. She drinks more. She calls you a fucking naive piece of shit and hurls a potted plant at your head to get you to leave her alone. Your brother calls the police, when she gets out of jail the following morning she walks to somebody else's house to start drinking again and has her uncle make violent threats on her own son for getting her arrested. She comes home and stabilizes if only for a bit. She tries to run to your cottage out back, and your boiling blood spills out for a moment.

“What the fuck are you doing with yourself? Look at what you're doing to us, to yourself. You're going to fucking die if you keep doing this. Do you want to fucking die?”

The quiet child finally turns and it engulfs her own anger and stifles it, breaks her spirit. You move out, you leave and that fire's set to burn without your intervention anymore.

Wanting to go to college and be a productive student, but being afraid to even walk into class if you're a few minutes late. Sleeping in the car to pass time, and inevitably drop out. Having a breakdown and being able to tell your father for the first time that you have problems you need help with, and two months after being put into the hospital for suicidal ideations he tells you you're better off killing yourself. Your boiling blood almost pours out completely.

“How did that even turn out?”

“He calmed down and apologized for getting upset before I left the house.”

“And if he didn't?”

“I probably would've left to go commit suicide.”

“...yeah?”

“I had it in my head planned out. Get a bunch of over-the-counter meds and liquor, drive down to the ravine, and wait until the cocktail takes me and I would've stopped floating eventually.”

“Wel--”

“And that time it wouldn't have been JUST out of apathy and wanting to die.”

“......yeah?”

“I wanted to spite him and ruin his life.”

“...”

“End both of ours. Get the peace and quiet I always wanted, and leave that massive disfigured scar on him, hoping it never heals and that he'll pick at it enough that it'll kill him too.”

“......”

“And I don't think I can ever tell him that. That things will probably never be okay between us for it. I don't ever want the capacity to feel, to think that way again. I probably should tell him that. But I don't think I will.”

In his hands, it was the urge to do what matters most but the inability to regret or cope with the fact that he couldn't.

Depression.

He's not entirely sure when he wakes up or when he's asleep anymore, all he knows is that it's probably a different day. Somewhere between nine-o-clock and noon he becomes aware on a slightly more conscious level. He remembers seeing the clock before that though. He lies in a humid daze drifting in and out of his own thoughts until that becomes tiring enough that he's willing to overcome his physical exhaustion just to ignore it for a while. He stays in his room until the rest of the house is empty. He gets something to eat, anything that's the furthest from nutritional value as possible. He wants to learn how to cook, but he's willing forgo effort and health for the sake of convenience. Then he steps into the bathroom, and there's a stranger staring at him.

“It's me, I'm your conscience asshole. Look at yourself. You got up and ran away, expecting results and nothing's happened. What the Hell are you doing so far away from home?”

“But...” He paused. “This is my home... isn't it?”

“Why the fuck do you need to ask me, you slob? Get in the shower, I'm tired of looking at you for the moment.”

“Just for the moment?”

“Don't you have some important failing to do soon?” He got into the shower and stood there. He contemplated whether or not to shave that day. He didn't. He got out of the shower and dried himself off and put on the same clothes he always wore, just cleaner. He got up and grabbed his phone. He put on his best mask and called the place he applied to.

“Oh, we're not hiring yet. But give me your name and your number, we'll keep you in our thoughts.” His phone number could be known by half the county at this point, but nobody would call. He thought they might because it's a different day of the week, though. He texted his family about his car, expecting that he might actually be able to get it after being broken down for nearly a year. He got no response, but he thought he might get one because it's a different day of the week.

“...so now what?” he asked his conscience.

“No but seriously. What the Hell ARE you doing here? Didn't you just decide to run away?”

“W-well, I had to.” he reasoned. “Being there was killing me.”

“Why?”

“B-because I'm... I'm depressed.”

“Oh Jesus, here we go again.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Listen here,” his conscience began. “Everybody has their problems. Most people handle them like reasonable adults. Are you an adult?”

“I think so.”

“Alright, better question. Do you think others see you as an adult?”

“Um...”

“The answer to that is no. You're not one. What did your dad call you again?”

“Um...”

“You remember right? Say it out loud. Come on.”

“...a fucking loser who should kill himself.”

“Do you think that's accurate?”

“Can we stop talking about this? Please?”

“Now answer me this. How much longer can you keep telling yourself that you're too depressed to do anything before it stops being a reason and that it turns into an excuse? Before you can just concede and accept that this is it for you?”

“B-but I can't now.”

“Why the fuck NOT?”

“Be... because I have responsibilities now.”

“YOU DON'T FUCKING DESERVE THEM.”

“Responsibilities aren't something someone deserves.” there was a bit of resolve in his voice. “People just have them. I have them now, and that's... that's just how it is.”

When the man decided to go to try sleeping, it was well past the time any reasonable person would be up. But despite how exhausted he was, he couldn't bring himself to sleep. He lied in his bed, his whole body trembling for little to no reason and it stirred his blood enough to keep him awake. He could not feel his hand. And he was incapable of doing so for a significant portion of the day.

“I suppose you're going to ignore that because you're a coward.”

“Nothing's wrong. It's going to be fine.”

“Don't show optimism in the stupid places where you should admit when you're actually in trouble.

“Can't I sleep?”

“Clearly not if you can't even stop fucking shaking.” He looked on his bed while he lied down, examining all the empty space.

“Why did I get a full?”

“To remind yourself that you're alone and that you always will be.”

“Well, maybe not always.”

“You'd have to find someone either as stupid, crazy or as much of a fucking loser as you are for her to even believe that you're worth being attached to.”

“...probably. Maybe I might get lucky?”

“If it's you, her definition of 'lucky' would be like Russian Roulette. Being with you is spending time hoping she doesn't get the chamber with the bullet in it that day.”

“Because that's when you'll show up.”

“And I'll remind her of everything she needs to know to understand why this is a mistake. I'll show her those ugly things about yourself that she deserves to know, and she'll rightfully leave.  Just like what happens with everybody else eventually.”

“...would things be easier if I was just dead?”

“You couldn't go through with that shit the first few times you tried, what makes you think it would be able to do it now?”

“You're... you're probably right.”

“Besides, you have 'responsibilities' now, don't you? It's easier to do when you just hate your fucking family. Now you're committed to this shit. There's no way out of here, you're in this for the long run and you're going to drag a bunch of people down with you who don't deserve it.”

“...I think I'll be okay with that eventually. Just like everyone else.” Even his conscience went silent for a bit.

“...right. Shouldn't you be asleep?”

“I don't really know anymore.” He wasn't entirely sure when he woke up or when he was asleep anymore, all he knew is that it's probably a different day.

Shame.

shattered and incoherent, the girl stumbled forward into a place she wasn't actually at as her head spun high above the clouds far up and away from the ants she stared down at

on the ground the ants had large crushing mandibles, spindling grotesqueness and piercing black eyes impaling everything they glanced at, coming by the masses to pick and pull and tear the girl into pieces that they kept and fed on, just being another piece of meat to serrate and dismember into bloody bits

up above the clouds she held her magnifying glass not to look back down at them, but to pierce the veil with a ray of menace to incinerate all of them, to watch them burn and shrivel and curl up, scattering frantically with no semblance of unity when they finally realise indignation is on their doorstep, capable of killing, murdering every last one of them

but she was not up there, and her head was so high that it didn't want to come down because there wasn't much left for the gibbering mouthers to take

which was the important question she had to ask herself

“why am i up here, there is nothing left for me down there”

a maniacal shimmering the masses reflected from the ground floor blinded her, and her head began spiraling back down to the earth, to fall back into the twisted amalgamation of leaky fluids and gaping holes she had to claim as her vessel, her body to transcend through the laughing, cruel psychosis, the divine prank this life set up for her

the wind bellowed under her, her perfect wedding dress resisting the fall and reaching up for something to grab onto with no avail

the mighty sun, the bringer of life, the grandiose incinerator shot upwards higher and further from her reach as the earth rushed to catch her, to feed the rest of her to the ants clamping their gaping maws open and shut in anticipation

this is not real, this is not happening.

“when you hit the ground, this reverie will end and you will back into the hole made for you, with others ready and willing to bury you.”

“...does this really have to happen, isn't there some other shambling mess i can take residence in?” the girl asked

as she turned away from the rolling sky a festering mound of flesh looked back at her, eyes hollowed out, mouth closed and drool dried like dirty water left running

legs splayed apart with vulgarity trickling out, eager to creep out of the hollow vessel, to vacate the emptiness it was placed into against her will and become nothing more than a crawling infestation onto the carpet it seeped into

twisting, twitching, ready and primed for suicide

the smiling love the corpse desperately clung to in its final moments ripped from her hands, sticky severed fingers still clinging to it as blood painted the trail it was dragged away on

all in the name of somebody else who probably won't notice.

___

She breathed, and convulsions trembled as Remilia's heart creaked back to life as the evening sun hung over the storage shed she was dragged into. Every breath an ordeal, her crushed chest strained to reach upwards with every inhale and exhale. The weight of her clothes were nowhere to be felt, her white polyester blouse torn down the middle as it rested on her shoulders and spilled onto the floor. Her eyes slowly and desperately pulled some light back into themselves to glance around. Her neck was the part of her body that ached the least, the gaping anomalies between her legs being parts that ached the most. Her voice was trying to claw its way out of her throat, but it continued to slip back down. She tried to throw her head up off the floor, hoping it would carry the rest of herself with it to no avail. She rolled to her side onto her stomach, her bare delicate breasts pressed against the cold jagged concrete floor. Her palms pushed the Earth away and attempted to force herself up as her arms shook violently. After a few minutes of struggle, she made her way into a sitting position and slumped against a wall of the shed. Her stockings were torn, exposing her once-pale knees that turned pink and raw. Her entire self felt empty, with a continuous pressure that got stronger the lower it went down her shivering body. She rubbed the dried crust from her mouth, a flat expression that hung underneath her bruised and pretty face. She was nothing more than a mannequin that had dirt smeared onto its face.

And as time was lost to her, she just laid slumped against the wall. The only sound to keep her company was her strained breathing. The only thing she could bare to look and pay attention to was the light creeping its way across the wall.

“......this is happening.” a stifled, dry voice spit out. A coughing fit crept in and Remilia hung over in agony. She slumped onto her side, and soon onto all fours as a viscous grip on her stomach crept its way upwards and she began to throw up. She almost fell over, yet careful enough not to fall in bile she just expunged. The purge left her there. The only thing left in her were tremors. Her legs brought her up. He hesitantly attempted to walk, but a single emaciated leg was not enough to support the girl. She fell forward and padded the fall with her right arm, grinding itself open against the floor. The discolored bruises that coated her forearms and wrists were checkered with red dots climbing out of her pores. Her teeth gritted and hinted at a buckle of composure, but the anger quickly left her face as the lifelessness retook residence. She made her way to her feet and stood as the room drifted back and forth. A draft beneath her skirt and the slight subsiding ache made her realize her panties were missing, as did the chipping off of sweat and miscellaneous fluid being shaken back to life and creeping down her legs. The door seemed far away. It wasn't. She was at a wild west stand-off with it, though the reason was she simply couldn't bring herself to try and walk again. She did not know what was outside, and what happened in the shed was being left to unlock the door.

___

and staring back out there, the bloody imprint the girl's impact made onto the floor as she came crashing back down

her head turned to look, enough to break her neck

all of the people, the endless hordes had black paint splashed across their faces, giant x's blotting out the crowds as all of them were nothing more than self-contained messes

unconcerned with the localized disasters each of them withstood that none of them had anything to do with

because everyone carries problems, this is not different, this is not worth everyone else to impede on

take the brush and paint yourself out like everyone else

bleed into this congealed mass, selfish, seeking to look away or to pacify others for nothing more than a moment's peace

and always remember to smile, even if you don't mean it

lies are the make-up that keep people from seeing how ugly of a person you are

twist and mangle this ribbon until it can't be recognized anymore, until it's the only knot that's holding all of this together

it's a lot easier than shame

Go out and be a family man.

“You're a fucking loser and you always will be.”

“...'kay.”

I agreed with the sentiment because my father was right. Up to this point in these 25 years of life, I can safely say that my win/loss record at life was running into the negative, so his assessment of me not winning and possibly continuing not to win from here on out was not based on fallacious thinking. I also said that because I was better than him and I knew when to keep my mouth shut.

“If you're so broken and depressed, why don't you just go ahead and kill yourself.”

“That's the second time you told me that.” And it was. The first time it hurt like Hell. Because I have problems, and living in fear your entire life of how people will judge you for having problems is the worst thing to think. So when you finally go to the funny farm and decide to let your family know that you need help, it ends up confirming all your fears when two months later your father uses that information you struggled so long to finally trust him with to hurt you tremendously. This was the second time though, so it didn't really hurt.

“This time I fucking mean it, you piece of shit.” Alright, so it still hurt a little.

“I'm getting your car fixed next week. When it's done, get the fuck out of my house.”

“Alright.” And this next week quickly changed to “Nevermind, get the fuck out now.”

“Okay.” And I decided to just get dressed proper and leave.

“Where the fuck are you going to go?” he asked. “What the fuck are you going to do?”

“...why the Hell are you worried and asking me about that shit if you're kicking me out in the first place?”

“You know what, fuck you. Get the fuck out you loser. And leave my fucking credit card, too.”

“I don't have it anymore, it expired.”

“Then leave your fucking phone, it's mine.”

“Okay.” That was initially relieving because then the man couldn't find me.And then I walked out. I was wearing denim jeans, a plaid white dress shirt, a white undershirt, and old brown dress shoes that were dirtied. I had my crooked sunglasses on that I've had since the beginning of High School where I thought rounded frames made me look like a badass and not a drug addict. In my pockets were my wallet, my glasses case, and a pair of headphones attached to nothing. I had a keyring on my belt. I had a USB with all of my writings on hand. And that was it. It was 4:48pm on a Thursday. And this all got started when I left my room to decide to weigh myself. Now I have an irrational fear of scales, thanks dad.

And 160. 15 pounds gone in five days, if you're wondering how unhealthy all of this shit's been.

Despite what transpired, I was oddly at peace as I walked through town. People dread that the worst would come out of a degenerating situation, and when it does and there's almost what could be considered a sigh of relief.

“...well I intended on moving out soon. I guess it's just happening sooner than expected.” That was a cause for celebration. “...with none of my possessions.” That wasn't. The worst really was the worst at that time. You could liken it to your house burning down and losing everything you ever owned. It took a while to set in on me, but it scared me. But with a new mission statement on hand, I walked to my brother's place. He wasn't home. I waited for a few hours. He pulled up and was getting ready to leave again when he saw me sitting on a stairwell in his apartment complex. He looked confused, and then the look on his face settled and he knew exactly what happened. Towards his better judgment he chose to uninvolve himself with the whole fiasco. I wanted to leave the place with as little of a fuss as possible. My brother would leave the place in flames, twisting his imaginary mustache in a Machiavellian way laughing like a nutcase. I could've easily said a lot of things to my father. If I wanted bridges burned, if I wanted vengeance for however I felt like he wronged me, I could've done it myself. But I chose not to. Maybe I agreed with him on most of it. Maybe I think I'm above devolving into fits of rage. Maybe I was too fucking tired of that shit to do it myself. Or maybe because I become a bigger monster than he is and I'm smarter and better than he is, so I would be able to hurt him far more than he hurt me. But I just wanted to get out, to distance myself from that and collect myself.

“...alright I need to go back in there and get some of my shit back.” The concept of breaking into your own (former) place of residence to steal things that belong to you was odd enough as it is. There was a window. Not an actual window, a metaphorical one of opportunity. I have fucking keys to the house, I'm not crawling through a goddamn window. My father leaves for work to drive school buses at around 6:30am give or take. He gets off at 9am and is back home a few minutes later. My brother loaned me his car, and now it was a raiding party at 7am. If you want to know what it's like to know the amount of anxiety and fear infesting me when I got there, imagine that you're drowning in a river. No, I'm not going anywhere with that, that's really it. I guess there could a deer pissing nearby or something, but that's all I got for this metaphor, I didn't really think it through.

My stepmom was there. She was okay with letting me in. She told me my dad already felt like shit about it and not to worry. Not my problem, I gots shit to get before I leave. Lashing out just because “anger” isn't a good excuse, even if everything's hunky dory when it's done. People in prison for assault or murder “just lost control and did some things they regretted later”. Being the materialistic person I was, you could say my priorities were... let's not beat around the bush, fucking stupid and pathetic. I got enough clothes to wear, to survive. I ripped the harddrive out of my computer, for it was me. It was my life on this hunk of metal and tape. But I could get a lot more shit. What is truly important to me? What is truly valuable to my well-being, in this time of serious change where I can only take the necessities.

“Well shit, I'm not leaving the Nendoroids here.” And I took my goddamn Nendoroids. And my figurines. And my manga. And a lot of my games. Don't fucking judge me, I thought I'd never see this shit again. I can buy my own clothes, SENTIMENTAL KNICKKNACKS ARE GONE FOREVER. I took my fucking guitar, too. I can't play the damn thing, but I want to learn. When I got back to my brother's place, I swear he was going to kick my ass.

“...the fuck is wrong with your priorities? Why do you need this shit?”

“Because I had room.” I answered.

“Why would you take your QOTSA vinyl record?”

“IT WAS A GIFT.”

“You're fucking pathetic.”

“Yep.” But I fucking had it, so he can fuck off.

“Go back there and get your cell phone.”

“He said it was his. I don't want to give him something to hold over me.”

“Fucking steal it, what's he going to do, you're going to be in Oregon.” And I was going to be in Oregon, that's where I was moving to. I had a lease signed ahead of time before all this happened. I arrived at my brother's place Thursday evening. We bought tickets to leave Saturday night. I retrieved what I could Friday morning and evening. I had 130 dollars to my name.

While we waited at the train station, there was apprehension. This was the end of this particular failure, this endeavor with these people that I struggled to make do with. As I boarded the train, I felt like a walking cliché; dressed poorly, a week and a half's worth of facial hair smeared onto my face, no haircut. The only things I carried onto the main deck was my backpack that I've had since Middle School, and a guitar slinged over my shoulder. Someone asked me why it didn't have a case. I told them I didn't need one. They asked me where I got it. I told them that there was a guy who used to live in the apartment complex I lived in, he came across as a bit of a drug addict; he was an older man who was a recluse due to being hurt in a marriage, who stayed in his house and practiced. He latched onto the younger generation and watched anime and played videogames. He eventually got evicted, and while I saw him moving out, he took this guitar and gave it to me alongside some gear. He said he couldn't take it with him. I told him I couldn't play. He said to learn. Then the passenger asked me if I have learned, and I told them not yet. But it comes with me until I do.

I arrived up in Albany the following afternoon. My friend picked me up and we bantered. Then something was said that let me know what was going to happen here.

“Hey, what if this doesn't work out?” I asked him. “What if I just end up fucking this all up again and this all goes to Hell? What then?” And he had seven words to say to me, and only seven.

“You won't. Everything will probably be okay.” And that was it. Those were common words, words I hear every day. Just never structured like that. And that was really all I needed to hear.

When we got back to his place, you would suspect that the man's apartment had been robbed. He hadn't finished cleaning up, which is to be expected since I was there two and a half weeks early. I got settled in regardless. When he went to work a day or so later, I just sat on the couch. I thought about what transpired. Regardless of what happened, I didn't begrudge or hate my father. I simply pitied him. His father, Frank, was an asshole. My father hated him. When he died, they got a phonecall at the house and my mom told him when he came home.

“Hey, your father had another heart attack.”

“Did this one kill him?”

“...yeah.”

“Good.” And that was the end of the discussion. My father tried his hardest to avoid turning into that person his entire life. He worked hard, and always had good intentions. He just failed a lot, and his anger would seize control of him, torture him, frustrate him. It took me a while to realize that he wasn't much better than my mother as an alcoholic, having a disease take hold of him and make him do terrible regrettable things. A man who approaching 60, completely dissatisfied with his life and how it turned out, driving away his kids with his misguided good intentions and violent tendencies. And as a failure of a son, the only bone I can throw to this man is to understand him, and still attach myself to him so he doesn't die like his father did. That's the least I can do.

That's what went through my head while I sat there alone. And then for the first time in a while, I cried. I cried and I was laughing hysterically at the same time. The neighbors probably thought I lost my mind as I just sobbed and laughed and made a mess of myself. And I was able to say something and mean it for the second time. The first time was when I left my mother. The second time to no surprise was when I left my father. And they're words people hear every day too, that they vastly undermine the value of. The only thing I had to say to all this was what left my mouth.

“I'm finally fucking free.”

Fallout.

“...Hello? ...yeah of course I'm at home. ...Uh huh. Yeah. ......Marcus is the one handling that, isn't he? ......Seriously? What about Re—right, alright. ...no I don't care if you people will sort it out. I can be there in 10 minutes. ......no I'm fucking coming in. If he thinks it's a good idea to try doing this on my day off, he will learn. I'm going to make a fucking point here. ......Hell yes you people are lost without me. Yeah, I'll be there. I'm heading for my car now.”

Almost as if an unearthly force was approaching, the front door to the store wasn't so much as unlocked and slid open as it was ripped off of its frame. Everybody on the floor noticed Autumn storm in and walk immediately over to customer service and grab a telephone.

“Attention, I would like to see everybody to come to the front of the store for a meeting.” Her voice teetered with impatience throughout the entire store over the intercom. “That includes everybody currently working on the truck and Mikey, who figured it was a good idea to call me into work.” Everybody ceased their work and shuffled out of the stock room to the front of the store. Johnathon and Remilia came out of the main office as well, the latter holding a sandwich.

“I don't see this ending particularly well.” Johnathon muttered.

“What's going on?” Alma asked. “And where's Marcus?” Autumn stood in front of the store, hair done up in a ponytail, her token brown-framed glasses absent. Most particularly noticed was her attire.

“Now, I know what all of you are thinking.” She paused. “Scratch that, I don't. Because I'm not an idiot. But I know you have questions.”

“I have a question, Ms. Autumn.” Alma raised her hand.

“No you don't, put your hand down before I put it down for you.” Alma timidly lowered her hand.

“So you probably have a few questions. Like 'Why are you not wearing your glasses?' and 'Why weren't you at work earlier and decided to show up fifteen minutes before we open?' and that old chestnut, 'Why are you in a sports bra and yoga pants?'”

“I can answer that.” Remilia spoke up. “Is it because you're putting on weight again?”

“Yes, Remilia. That's exactly it. I'm hoping to lose enough weight to go down a cup size so you'd stop staring at my breasts like you're going to steal them.”

“They're nice boobs.”

“Yes I'm aware.” There was an awkward cough among the staff. “But the real reason to that is because I was at the gym. I was at the gym because it's my day off. And I was at the gym most definitely because ever since a hopeless ball of sunshine has taken up a parasitic existence at my established residence as of late, the gym serves several vital services in keeping my work ethic and composure at this store efficient. With Mr. Smiles at my house, the gym is the only place I can go by myself and reflect on how overqualified I am for this job and how every single one of you doesn't deserve to even be carried by my success that's bringing this store into the third best in the region. The gym is the place where I can reflect on how miserable every last person's existence in this store is without somebody vomiting rainbows in my general direction attempting to explain the contrary. And most importantly,” Autumn cracked her knuckles. “The gym is the place where I look for sparring partners but most of them turn me down at this point because I've broken 14 bones in the past three months, none of them mine because I'm able to take what excess bile I've saved up working in this hellhole and expel it onto complete strangers.” Everybody remained silent. “Which brings us to THIS current situation. HEY MIKEY. COME ON OUT. I SEE YOU HIDING IN WOMEN'S, SOME PLACE SUITABLY APPROPRIATE FOR YOU.” Michael trembled a bit and stepped forward. “I won't bite, come here.” He was cautious like a wild animal accepting food from a stranger, looking at Autumn's hand offered forward while he slowly stepped towards her.

“Now dearie...” The look on Autumn's face couldn't really be described adequately to articulate what Michael felt. Her skin was glistening from sweat, like a pearl dropped into water. Her smile had her lips closed, yet made it clear that there were teeth hiding behind them. And when Michael looked into her large amber eyes, he saw himself in a void, surrounded by a ring of fire. And if he didn't look away, he was going to be incinerated.

“You must've had a Hell of a good reason to get Johnathon to call me into work. Did somebody die? I don't see any blood or anything. Did Remilia finally snap and kill somebody?”

“Hurr.”

“Because if not, I'm about to.” Her false smile faded a bit and her eyebrow raised. “Actually, did she kill Marcus? Where the Hell is he?” She shook her head a bit and looked back at Michael.

“So out with it.” she sneered. “What in Jesus's merciful name was so important that you had to call me from home to come in?” There was awkward silence as everybody couldn't help but look at Michael, standing in the ring of fire, incapable of being helped by any of them. “MIKEY.”

“Uh... well,” he stammered.

“'Uh well?'”

“We needed somebody to sign off for the shipment after the truck unloaded and Remilia went on lunch.” Autumn's eyebrow twitched a bit.

“...are you fucking shitting me. I just. I don't eve—MARCUS IS THE M.O.D., IT'S HIS GODDAMN JOB. DON'T GO FUCKING CALLING ME IN ON MY ONLY DAY OFF THIS WEEK JUST BECAUSE OF THE MOST TRIVIAL BULLSHIT IMAGINA—actually wait no seriously where's Marcus now that I think about it?”

“He went into the bathroom and never came out.” Alma said. Autumn facepalmed.

“Oh are you kiddi—did Remilia actually kill him this time? She's been threatening him for months.”

“I wouldn't go into the men's bathroom to kill him, I know what goes on in the men's bathroom.” Remilia said.

“...I don't know why you know what goes on in the men's bathroom but okay.” Autumn began walking through the shoe department to get to the restrooms. “And I swear to God Mikey if you move an inch from where you are I will give Remilia permission to kill you.”

“I have my boxcutter just in case.~” A glimpse of a dark smile peaked through while everybody shivered in unison. As Autumn approached the men's bathroom, she heard moaning coming from it.

“Marcus, what in God's name are you doing to yourself in there?” she shouted outside the door.

“OH GOD IT HURTS, AUTUMN.”

“Marcus, we're here for you. We won't actually do anything but watch, but we'll be here watching.”

“THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE.”

“...Jesus Christ did Remilia really try to kill you this time?”

“No, dammit.” Remilia shouted across the store.

“I... I ATE JACK IN THE BOX BEFORE I CAME TO WORK.”

“Oh merciful God we've lost him already.” She sighed and walked back over to the group of associates, all watching Michael as he hadn't moved an inch.

“You didn't move, did you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“You remember that there are security cameras that I can check later to see if you're lying, right?”

“......yes, ma'am.” She noticed the pause. She looked at the associates.

“You're going to tell me if he moved. Did he move?” Nobody said anything. She approached Alma.

“Alma.” she flatly said. The young girl gulped. Granted Alma was taller than Autumn, Autumn was not a petite and bubbly cheerleader body type like Alma. Autumn for all her elegant facial features and curves was built like a woman who had just gotten out of prison, and she fought like one too. She did not need height to look down on people.

“Ms. Autumn.”

“Did Mikey move?”

“...define 'move.'”

“That's a good enough answer.” She turned to the associates. “Now, since I still have much, much excess bile that I've yet to dispose of through sheer exercise, I'm going to run laps around the store. And all of you idiots are going to join me for wasting my time.” There was silence. Autumn started laughing to herself and the rest of the associates started laughing with her. “Ahahahahaha GO. I'M FUCKING SERIOUS. START RUNNING. GO GO GO, MOVE YOUR ASSES.” And everybody immediately started jogging. “Except you three.” she referred to Johnathon, Remilia and Michael.

“You.” she looked at Johnathon. “Go back to fixing our digis. I want the software up to date by the time we start markdowns tomorrow. And punch me in when you go back into the office so we can have an M.O.D. on the clock to sign off the truck.”

“Will do.”

“And check on Marcus in a bit to make sure he hasn't expelled his heart out through his rectum.”

“I don't want to, I know what goes on in the men's bathroom.” he muttered.

“You.” she looked at Remilia. “Make sure they keep running for 15 minutes. I'm going to go back home after this nonsense.”

“Got it.”

“And leave the ones who drop on the ground, just make sure to drag them off the floor before the store opens.” And then Autumn turned to Michael.

“As for you,” she slowly approached him as he trembled yet didn't shift from his position. “I want to fire you for crap like this, but be grateful you still have some uses to me on my road to success out of this place.”

“T-thank you.”

“Instead I'm going to punish you in a different way that made you wish you were fired.”

“...oh god what?”

Inconspicuously enough, Michael went home for the day and the security footage from the camera in front of the store had the previous ten minutes edited out by Johnathon as Autumn went home. The only thing Alma and her co-workers noticed was Mikey went on sick leave. Or at least that's what they heard and they didn't want to ask any further questions.