When I get asked how I feel, I don’t have an answer. Because the feelings I feel are buried deep, to keep the agonizing screams at bay, that sometimes I forget there are people who don’t have to hold themselves together for fear of their chest splitting in two.
I struggle to maintain eye contact with the people that ask me this question. I’m scared that they might somehow see the darkness I hide. This facade has taken years to master, but I know it would only take one second to shatter it into a million pieces, breaking my ribs as it claws its way out.
My darkness is the witness to the worst of humanity. It is a creature, burned by ravaging fire, red-raw and unrecognizable. A creature so twisted and demented it should be dead. It is a creature in so much pain, it shrieks in agony, begging for a bullet to the head.
That’s what I am.
A creature, buried alive in a shallow grave – my surroundings infecting every burn and cut with a dirt that will never wash off. I’m held just below the surface, just deep enough to dampen my screams before they rip through the cold air.
But nobody ever hears my dark creature.
It stays buried, where only I can hear it. Every moment is agony, but we’re bound by silence, this darkness and I – like the unwritten rules of a library. And like a library, we wander through the shelves, pretending the book we want isn’t already in our hands, and that the ending we want isn’t already written.