Silence. Darkness. The all-familiar bathroom corner. The same tears, the same crazy-eyed look, all for the same reason. Cheap lighting illuminates his face as he examines his left inner thigh. Tears fall on the tiles and he stops himself from making guttural noises again. His heart aches. He carefully traces through the scars that are yet to fade. The toilet is in sight, the room is cramped. Blood is dripping, staining his clothes. He is waiting, remembering the last time. Nothing has changed.
He stops crying and he is rational for a moment. He lets the rush of endorphins take over him, his moment's peace achieved. More blood starts appearing. The cuts are not severe but they achieve their purpose. He looks across the room, contemplating his last time. Nothing has changed.
He is counting down days. He is trapped with a timer. He cries for escape, even though he knows that there is no escape. He can run away from the bathroom, the tear-stained pillowcase, the house, the city – but he knows he cannot outrun himself. He longs for a hug that never comes. He imagines someone patting his shoulder – but it is his arm that does so. He closes his eyes – the time for crying is past. He is beyond that. He imagines false dreams and takes comfort in them. He sits on the toilet seat, contemplating about taking drugs. Would that help?
He has prayed, he has hoped, he has planned, he has talked about how he felt, he cried, he has begged and pleaded for acceptance, for freedom and for love. Love is a reward he could never earn. Love is a price he could not pay. He is once again alone in the Universe, or perhaps he was always alone. Nothing has changed.
He only comes out at night, taking comfort in his loneliness. He only talks when there is no one and his laughs go unheard. His tears are invisible, and his anger is who he is. His sobs are loud but no one can hear him. He hugs himself and cries some more. Again, a moment of clarity appears. He stops crying. He thinks and he stops. It is painful. He does not want to think. Because nothing has changed.
He resolves to change things. He decides on starting a new life. He decides not to forgive. His sorrow turns to anger. He curses and swears – and, for a moment, his self—dignity is restored. For a moment, he respects himself and loves himself. The moment fades. His resolve is crushed. He forgives yet again. He curses himself and hates his love. You are the reason nothing has changed, he tells himself.
Taunts go over his head, a never-ending melody. A cacophony of false promises ring through his ears. He is overwhelmed and calm. He is crying and not. He is incomplete and he revels in it. He truly lives when he sorrows and questions of masochism enter. He does not want to die, he decides. He wants to wait out the storm. He sits in his bathroom, waiting. Nothing has changed.