Under a Guise
These problems… they start out fictional- nonsensical issues created by the schizophrenic section of my scared imagination- but become real problems in no time. I'm trying to figure out myself. So I'm sorry for this. I just need time.
For the boy who didn't know who he was, a disguise was an easy thing to put on. He always wore one, even when he was here, telling his story to someone he trusted. They were walls- blocking his unknown face from those who slashed at its unformed features.
I just… I was a bit awkward in middle school, but the kids never gave me a chance. I was depressed for most of my time, and cut myself and even contemplated suicide. Sometimes I'm still like that, which is why I don't like talking about it…
Things had always been rough that way. When masks got confused and he had to switch or combine them to keep an image. Even if it was a failing image. He was explaining that. Explaining how no matter what face he wore no one ever seemed to be satisfied. And his masks didn't shield him. Behind all of them you could still see the scars that covered his skin. And behind that skin in the depths of his mind, the voices that had shoved him against the lockers, hissed profanities in his ears, and chipped the plaster of his face could still be heard crystal clear.
My own mind melts at the thought, I hate my own ideas: I'm such a contradiction of my person. I attempt to grasp for people's hands for hope that they will save me from my own insanity. The only person to nudge at this was my best friend, but even he has lost interest in my self-destruction. Please forgive my insane attitude. I hate myself for being me- which is why I apologize. I asked for your acceptance because in loneliness it worsens, and I do things to myself I dare not mention… I hate myself beyond reason. So you can either try to help me or go on about your day. I'm sorry…
He reached out to grab the hand that dangled next to the listener. It was warm in his own. It was some kind of comfort. He felt bad to be the weight in that hand, the fifty pound bag slowing its movement, decreasing its potential. He felt like there should have been some resentment in the lines of that palm for all the grief he had caused it. But he also wanted that hand- and more so the person attached to it- to give his pathetic life some weight. Behind all the masks he still had a face, and even if it was a face he hated it wasn't going to change anymore. It was set in stone and it was a face that showed loneliness in every inch.
I lust for trust: I wish night and day someone shall let me through the golden doors keeping me from their deepest secrets. I lust to see a person as such. Time is too long, but very well.
The stories that the person with the warmth hand told were better than his own. Truer, sweeter, and far less tragic. Stories about what happened to fathers, stories about bruised bodies and broken arms. They were complete stories. Stories with clear endings, practiced middles, and fish hook beginnings. They had some sort of relevance in them that he felt his story lacked. They were stories you wrote down before telling, stories you shared only with someone who had earned them. He loved these stories. But they weren't what filled his head now. He was thinking of his own stories endings- how soon they would come, and what they would be like. His masks sat patiently on the table, waiting to be tied on again. At some point he dropped the person's hand. It had grown cold surrounded by his own. When he left, he left his masks with that hand. He walked into his world with unshielded eyes, his face finally free from captivity.
Love and resolution withal, you opened yourself up to me tonight, of your own accord tonight. That takes some semblance of maturity and some semblance of room for emotional growth. You know that I want to be the person to help you grow in that respect and others, through the community of conversation and worse. Surely you understand obligation, the call of caring for your mother after the loss of her companion? The obligation of watching a spiral no matter the peace that your voice brings me- an obligation called me thither to-night; another voice, in the crisis, that deserved the company of mine for better or how much it hurts. If you understand what has happened to yourself, then you'll understand the obligation that has called me away this night. Forgive me that, and let this emotion string continue; let us talk, let us grow, tomorrow- until then, adieu.