beastboy's perspective
I thought I was okay.
That was all I believed as long as I could remember.
I figured, maybe if I put on a presentable facade to the world: a youthful smile and a vivid laugh, that perhaps that would obscure the wretched nature burying me alive.
If that plan fell through, I would raise my eyebrows a bit to hide the temptation of my face wanting to sulk. In the event that both strategies failed, I would rest my faith in telling jokes. My hypothesis was, if I wasn't able to make myself happy, conceivably, I had the power of lifting someone else's spirits.
After a while, I learned, that my "quick-fixes" only sharpened the pain's sting. I came to understand that I was two different people in one body.
These two universes within me were constantly in an endless unrest. The light personality was driven by instinct, as it was always ready to conceal my underlying horrors.
Meanwhile, my darker persona, was hungry to go beyond myself. This internalized battle frequently caused me confusion, as I never knew which identity to settle with.
The sun played with contrast and brightness, letting its strokes dribble through my room window. The sky was a spotless river of blue, and my ears picked up on a harmonious melody of birds.
On such a delightful day like today, it would make sense to enjoy it. I had the option of soaking in the sunshine or being caressed by the winds. Additionally, I had the choice to be in the presence of my friends.
Instead, I was secluded in my room.
Isolation was a two-way street, and I always had a choice of which way to travel it. I could use my time alone to entertain myself: skim through manga, listen to music, or watch a movie.
This time, however, was different.
I didn't have an ounce in me to do anything recreational, since I was currently journeying on the opposite end of the path.
I was skimming through emotions, I was listening to my thoughts, and watching myself fall apart.
It's easy for me to say that there was only one cause of this effect.
Unfortunately, life is not structured like that.
Life is a convoluted city where everyone lives, but still finds themselves lost. The alleys and streets of life are irregular and twisted. It is never known what the next change of direction holds, for one only knows of the present and the past.
Some people may be struggling with an old road, but creating a smoother one. In contrast, others may be trying to pave over a previous path while plodding through a current one. As luck would have it, some may have their soil intact and may have to wait a while for their routes to be disturbed.
I happened to fall in the second category.
While vigorously struggling with the past, I aimed to obtain peace in the present moment.
That, just like everything else, appeared impossible.
Gum wrappers, magazines, shoes, clothes, and loose cords strewed across my room floor. A laundry basket in the corner was bent to one side, being that it was overflowing with dirty clothes. The closet doors were halfway closed, due to the fact that I never put up my clothes in a neat and proper fashion.
The drawers of my dressers were jammed sloppily with socks, pants, and shirts. On the surface of the dressers were wrinkled papers, either standing or knocked over bottles, and a pile of coins.
My room was always considered a mess by my teammates, but I knew better than anyone, that the real disorganization was within myself.
With my spine arched into a slouch, I opened a compact vintage box.
It was wooden, with a world map etched on the surface. I dumped the contents out of the container and sifted through them.
My hand moved rather slowly, being that it has already touched these objects more times than it could recall.
This case was a memory box of the sort.
Typically, in memory boxes, there would be jewelry, trinkets, birthday cards, diaries, or pictures.
Even so, I had a rare collection that was different from the norm.
A syringe, a map stash, smudged notes, a dog-eared, aging pamphlet, coins, and dollars.
The notes were merely scribbles of scientific formulas, mathematical equations, and sketches of reptiles. The booklet was brimmed with information surrounding chemistry, physics, statistics, and ecology.
As for the maps, they had colored avenues all over, most of them dated back to my early childhood. Even years later, I had seven dull coins and four crumbled dollars from Africa.
My emerald gaze hardened as it scanned over the syringe, which was missing a plunger.
The vintage box held the little of what I had left of my parents.
I revisited the assortment on occasion, mainly because I abhorred becoming involved with the feelings attached to it.
Today marked ten years since my parents passed away.
Grief reigned as my master, even years after my parents' death. It liked to hug its arms around me in a stealthy manner, whether I was ready or not. Grief, a complicated recipe by itself, managed to pressure me with other negative emotions.
Every memory with my family repeated in my head like a broken symphony, for what like eternity. I failed to understand how my heart could feel so empty, but my soul could feel burdened simultaneously.
My breath dissevered as I felt a familiar numbness surge through my bloodstream. Darkness smothered my brain, while the pain began to abuse me. My heart quickened, trying not to be frozen by the bitterness rising up inside.
I hoped for tears fall and to wipe them away, but that was impossible since I hadn't formed any.
I was in the thick of a mental paralysis that only tightened its grip.
I ached for comfort to accept me, or for grief to show me some mercy, but my fate planned otherwise.
As much as I refused to believe this was the life I lived, I learned that this was the price I had to pay for loving someone.