I wanted to write you a fic, this is one of my writing blogs. You’ve helped me a lot. You asked a while back about a fic where his parents didn’t accept it, and I thought I’d write one for you. Sorry it’s not very good, it’s pretty late.
Trigger warnings: self harm, blood, family fighting
I’ve been this way…I’ve been this thing for days now. I can feel it, I feel hollow inside. Like the part of me that died, it was the only part a human needs to live. Before the accident, I felt sad sometimes, and other times happy. But now… I think the happy side was the one that was mutilated, turned into something no one should have as part of them. Something no longer alive.
How long have I been lying here, on my bed, wishing I could muster the strength to force the death, the phantom, out of me? Jazz always told me that if I hated myself I should clear my mind out. So then, whats at the top of the pile? The ghost, of course. I can’t deal with that yet, I don’t know how. Whats next then? My parents, I guess. I haven’t told them yet. Thats what I’ll deal with. My legs felt like lead as I forced them over the edge of the bed and slowly stand, then make my way out of my room and into my parent’s.
"Mom…? Dad…?" I ask slowly, my voice feeling like nails as it dragged itself from my throat.
"Yes son?" was the simple reply as they turned their attention towards me.
How do I say it? Slowly? Start with a joke? Or just tell them? I guess I just go with that. I’ll say it quickly. My voice was quiet and scared, and anyone could hear me forcing tears down. My arm went invisible, as if to prompt me, and prove my words. “I’m a ghost.”
As the words left my mouth Dad sprung from the bed and ran towards me, looking as if he was finally justified, but also angry, like he would rip me in two. “You had the audacity!” he yelled as he charged towards me and grabbed my wrist, “To stay in my house?” He’s going to kill me. Right now.
Or he would have, if Mom didn’t pull him away.”Don’t do that!” She yelled, angry with him. “I don’t care if he’s a ghost.” The look on her face told a different story though, not one of anger, but of fear. “Danny… I think you should go to your room.” And I did. Walking step by step do my room, thinking about the way my father acted like I wasn’t even his son anymore. And how Mom just looked so betrayed, but so scared.
I wanted the ghost out even more now. How was telling them supposed to help? Weren’t we supposed to cry and hug, and they’d tell me it was all right? That they still loved me? But this damned phantom…I can feel it. He’s in my veins. He’s just as much me as I am, but also not at all. I want it out. I need it out! I’m going insane, my head is spinning. I finally make it back to my room and I open a drawer of my desk, finding what I knew was there- an old pair of scissors. I carried them over to my bed after closing my door. I just need to cut the ghost out… even if it doesn’t work, I deserve the pain, I scared mom. I never wanted to hurt her.
So I rolled up my sleeve and opened the tool, then laid the blade across my skin, pressing it down ever so slowly, it hurt so much… but I wont pull away. Red started to bubble around it, so I pulled the metal out finally and pushed it in again, a centimetre up from the first. This one stung more, agitating and pulling the skin around the first cut, and forming a new one. I pulled it off again, and cut another, this one deeper than the other two. I angled the knife as it was in my skin, and it tore the deep cut. A quick gasp later and a few cuts later, blood was all over my floor and I’d never felt more light headed, even so, the world seemed sharper than before I had started.
I stumbled my way to my dresser slowly and used the bloodied scissors to cut away at an old shirt that was lying on the dresser until I had a choppy strip of fabric. I slowly wrapped it around my throbbing arm and used the rest of the shirt to attempt wiping up the blood with my good hand, only to fail, and throw the disfigured fabric into my garbage.
I finally decided to lie down. I listened to my parents yell for what felt like hours, as I stared at the ceiling in almost complete darkness. The only thing I felt was my heart beat in my arm.
Is this what it feels like to be dead? Or is this what it feels like to be alive?
The real question, I guess, is; is there a difference?