The Giver

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. Minuscule rivers of slat water pain ran its course down the contours of my face and around the curves of my lips My shallow breathing was laboured and painful from the knife piercing my heart. Curled up like a child I huddled in the corner. Alone. Afraid. Cold. In darkness. Who would save this wounded soul? Who was there to hear my cried? Even had they seen, they would have looked on with pity in their eyes but no intention to aid me or bandage the gaping wounds. And so it has been for fifteen years.

I live in cruel world of darkness. Loneliness befriended me at birth. Tears became lullabies and I learned to rock myself to sleep as an infant. I depended on me for survival. My physical needs were seen to by others but each day brought an emotional battle I braved alone. They couldn't see past the lying eyes and broken smile. They said to my face as I wept that I knew not pain. I knew not pain?!?!? It is this pain within my chest that has driven me forward. The ever present pain fuels my will to carry on. Each breath I take hurts, each beat of my heart breaks it. I know not pain? We shall see. Live my life. Work on my movie set. Immigrate to my world, then tell me what you know of pain.

A shiny silver blade lay in the palm of my hand. It's smooth metallic surface cooled my skin and delighted my tough. In one swift movement, it drew blood. A thin line of crimson liquid rose to the surface of my punctured skin. I laughed. The sting tickled and was a welcome feeling. The rush of adrenaline calmed my shaky nerves. I ran the edge of my finger nail along my wrist, caressing the scabs, the scars and smudging the pool of blood. This was my anguish released from its prison. It drew out shards of the demonic plague within. Release...

The blood continued to pool and rush to the open wound without clotting. The liquid droplets seemed to sparkle. The deep red hue was a familiar sight. My skin had once been a smooth, rich coffee colour, and was now scarred, scabbed and bloodied. Raised red lines crisscrossed over the veins. A single tear drop fell into the open wound. It stung. I laughed. This pain was welcome in my world. It was not I who was the hazard to myself; it was them.

I lived in a raging war. Each dawning break broke forth a new battle, new mutiny. Each sunset brought to me relief that I had survived yet another day. Each battle was a fight for my life. It broke me down and wore me out. It scarred my mind and calloused my heart. But I prevailed. I lived.

I was not a rebel without a cause. I was not blindly battling for an unjust or nonexistent cause. The world was my battlefield, mankind was the foe. Survival relied on allies and espionage. Life to me was political; a game of strategy.

Betrayal; a term I was most accustomed to. I was forced to learn to adapt. I was not immune to hurt but my survival depended on changing with my environment. Each friendship had crumbled to dust, each human interaction lay in ruins. Trust did not come with ease. The numbered few who had my trust; I would die for. I am dying for them as we speak. I gave my all, I have nothing left; yet they ask more of me. They take and take and take from me that which I cannot give. They have taken all that I am. I am nothing and yet they want more. People have left me bleeding without even a name, and it is not enough. It is never enough for them. Ungrateful. Unwanted. Unhappy.

I live in a world where a blunt can replace a best friend. One shot of e, one snort of coke; a drug cant replace a human connection. Cuts like a knife, pierces like a bullet, but that's my life. It hurts, it hurts like hell. Oh well. Move on. I'm dying for them. They are killing me. i have given my all, and my all is not good enough. Not my work, not my help, my friendship, home, my care. Not goods enough, never was and never will be. I ran to them in the dead of the night, it was not good enough. Risked my safety and my home, it was not good enough. They could drown in the tears I have cried for them in one day alone, but no matter, it's just me. I'm expected to give and ask for nothing in return. C'est la vie. It's normal. It's just me, I'm the one who is supposed to be hurt; I'm expected to bleed. But no matter.

Do you wonder why I cry? Why I trust not a soul? Do you question each crystal tear drop as it falls? You think I know not pain and yet you watch me bleed. You watched my calloused heart break and bleed but no matter; it's just me. If I removed your death knife from your trembling fingers, no matter. It's expected of me. If I ran to you each time you cried and was there when you needed me. No matter; it's expected of me. You cry to me yet you push me away. No matter, I know not pain. Use me, abuse me, I'm the giver. I am your rock and yet I am alone. You look down your nose at my tears, call me insane for my self mutilation, and now I ask you . . . What wrong am I doing by hurting myself when the world has broken me further? Self harm releases a drug. A drug replaced me. Who left me to bleed? It is not I who am the hazard to myself. I have nothing, am nothing. They broke me.