|devil made me do it
Author: sndstarshine PM
Why do people do bad things? Is there some sort of devil lurking around every corner, just waiting to make you trip, or is the devil something that lives deep inside of us, inseparable from who we are? A nameless woman evaluates her life for signs of an answer, and comes across a frightening conclusion. oneshot, rated because of reasonsRated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Tragedy - Words: 1,345 - Published: 08-19-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3051754
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
the devil made me do it
summary: Why do people do bad things? Is there some sort of devil lurking around every corner, just waiting to make you trip, or is the devil something that lives deep inside of us, inseparable from who we are? A nameless woman evaluates her life for signs of an answer, and comes across a frightening conclusion. oneshot, rated because of reasons
Why do people do bad things? Is there some elusive outside force that makes us commit evil acts? I often wonder who human kind can blame. More frequently I wonder if there is anyone I can blame for the things I ve done, because that's easier. Blaming someone or something else is always so, so much easier.
I suppose if there is anyone to blame, they got their claws into me young. Thinking about it, I was very angry as a child. Angry as an adult, too; even now I use my anger to cover up how sad I am. I can easily recall several episodes where it caused me to lash out and be unnecessarily cruel. How could I forget the time my sister took something stupid, I can't even remember what it was, and when I yelled at her she responded with her usual flippant 'I don't care!' How could I forget the way I went off to sulk and as she walked by me I reached out and stabbed her leg with a pen until her leg was bloody? I was seven, and someone should have known then what I would become.
Unhealthy behaviors and coping mechanisms, of course continued, but after a while I started turning that notorious anger onto myself. Self-mutilation, as little sense as it makes, was the only thing that worked. Ironic, isn't it? Hurting yourself to feel better? But it gave me a control and quickly was the most constant thing in my turbulent and pathetic adolescent life. I can remember the feeling like it happened yesterday - the way the world came into sharp focus when blade met flesh. The way the emotions would bottle up until I felt like they would choke me but once the blood started flowing suddenly I could breath again. Blood dripping and running into the curve of my elbow, the angry red scars on my arms. I've heard it said that some pain is too deep for tears and that's when the only option is to hurt even more. I don't know how true that is but it was all I knew for a while. But what you don't anticipate is the way it takes over your entire life. I would find myself hyperventilating randomly throughout the day and having to run to a bathroom stall and dig around in my purse for something, anything to get the job done. It was so embarrassing. Clearly I couldn't let it go on, couldn't let the one thing I thought gave me control turn the tables and take control over me. It was one hundred percent not an option. So I fought.
I fought for control over my own body and more than once I almost gave up. For a few weeks, maybe two or three months, I would manage to fool myself into thinking I was okay, I was better. But all it took was one upset and I was back to the blade begging it to make me better. It was nearly stronger than me but somehow I pulled ahead, kept trying, and then one day I realized I didn't need it anymore. It didn't even have an affect, no matter how many cuts I made in my arm or how hot the burn was. Guess I was lucky in that way. So I won...but that didn't come to mean much either. Surviving is less glamorous than people make it out to be, you know? Replacing one bad habit with another, I was still searching for that one main thing: control. Control over my anger which could arise out of nowhere and turn me into a completely different person, led me to new places of pain.
Over the years, from habit to habit, I tried to mask the pain and the anger and tried to turn it into something constructive. I wanted to paint a positive message for other people and I promised them that rescue is possible and love is the movement and that YOU CAN BE FIXED. Through the love and support of others we can find salvation from the abyss that consumed us. Did I believe any of it was true? Maybe, I don't know. I didn't know very much then, not about myself and not about the world. I didn't know there were things no amount of love can ever fix.
I was nineteen, in college, and silly. One night I went out with some friends to this club in a nearby city. I wish I could recall exactly how it happened but I can't. How I ended up in an alley with my face to a brick wall I really can't say. But it happened anyway. At the time I didn't want to believe what was happening - you grow up thinking those sorts of things happen to other people, not you. Right? Well they do happen to you. It happened to me. Heavy breath on my neck, a distinctly male scent, being pushed up against a wall and suddenly knowing for sure it's a man because you can feel him and he's pulling your hair, telling you you want it and to tell him he's the best you've ever had yes yes, say it! You never even see his face while he's pumping into you like you're some kind of animal and it's tearing you apart because you feel so violated and angry and broken but your body responds anyway and he says you're such a fucking slut you deserve it.
Yeah, it happens.
I believe in the saving grace of God but sometimes I have a hard time believing there's a spot for me up in heaven because of what I've done. At nineteen I lost it. Did the devil make me do it? Did the devil make me a monster? Does the devil set off that trigger in my head that makes me explode into a fit of rage, that first time when I knew it was him and proved him right, thta filthy slut and a fucking animal? Did the devil make me put my hand boldly on his thigh and lead him back into the woods? Did the devil make me smash his head into that rock until I was covered with a mixture of his brains and blood?
More importantly, did the devil make me do the same thing to five different men when I knew exactly what I was doing?
People like to pretend they understand, but they don t. They tell em monster because I chose to be this way, that they understand what I was feeling and how I d be angry and want revenge but I did the wrong thing but they ll never ever know the fire that burns deeply within my soul, the fire you can t deny, and never is a fucking promise.
Some people would call it the devil, but I just laugh. The devil is' t some little red guy who hangs around corners and waits until we pass by to push us into the traffic of evil acts. That fire is me, it s the devil, the devil is me and each of you. He s not even the devil, he s just us and we re just us. I don t know if it was written in the stars, if I chose or not, but I do know the devil didn t make me do anything.
I did it all myself.