Once, once he was almost dead, once he always bled. Once last year he almost killed himself twice, he bled out a whole bodies worth of blood in one summer. But that was last year. He has come far from ‘once’; now he just lives a healthy life; wake up, go to school, come home, do homework, go to sleep, repeat. Once he had a story to tell every week that caused others to be transfixed on what he was telling them and made him smile. Now he only has a few of those stories and all of them start with the word “once.”
Healthy, yes, he’s healthy, physically, and outwardly he’s healthy mentally too. But he’s starting to hate every moment of it. Now that he’s healthy his greatest exploits are in his imagination and on a basketball court. He tries to live it up, live in the now, without going back, but he rarely gets the chance he deserves. He feels alive when the pain surges through his body during basketball, but it just isn’t enough. He wants some alcohol, not a lot, just a little, to know what it’s like. He’d like a cigar, at least just one to celebrate the fact that he’s been clean from blades for a year. He’s not asking for much, just one real party, one more intimate relationship that will last longer than three months. Just to make him feel that his life isn’t pointless, to make him know that he is alive and that his life is not only worth a few incredible stories from the past.
Alone, he feels so alone. He’s always had people around him, who like him, who talk to him, but since this school year has started he hasn’t had anyone he can call a true friend. Once he had six people, his group, his very best friends who made him feel alive. They were what made him happy, the ones he could tell anything to, the ones he told everything to, the ones he loved more than anything else he had. But now he’s alone in a group of people he knows, no one makes him feel alive. He’s all alone in an endeavor to survive the boredom and monotony his life has become.
Regret, he regrets every moment he’s alive, he hates himself for falling asleep every night without a story to tell about the day. He feels like he’s just wasting his life, like he’s going nowhere. Every morning he regrets the boring night behind him. If he has to he will live it up one his own again—he can’t live a life that’s not worth living anymore. But he knows by his definition of living, he wouldn’t be living it very long before he died, which in all honesty he’s completely fine with. He needs somebody like him, who’ll love him, who’ll live with him.
Someone, anyone and this point, someone who will know when he’s dying inside and make him feel alive. He wishes for someone who won’t back down from a challenge, who will always have a new idea, a new thing to get excited about. He needs somebody who will experience all there is to experience with him. Wipe the tears from his heart, remove the dust from his skin, fill the lungs in his chest.
But No One Comes.
