Separation (Part One)

Separation

Author: Nen

          When I woke up, my eyes were open and I couldn't fall back asleep for a long time. When I’m lying in bed, my body aches and I can’t fall asleep to pass the time. The face of the clock showed three thirty-three AM. Outside of the window it’s dark and quiet. Just a night of sinking. The smell of Nivea and the sweet and sour smell of the pillow mist is all I have now. I wear a flimsy blanket to drown out the pain, so I won’t lose my sense of being. No matter where you are, whatever you do. I took off my blanket and got up, swirled the sour left in the refrigerator from the bottle, and played the melody of the CD that I used to listen to in the old days with a speaker on a whim. The nostalgic intro flows at a slow pace. When I used to enjoy playing with friends and having unrequited love the lyrics touched me, but now they seems so foreign. My daily routine was to sleep at night and listen to ballads while I fell asleep, but I almost spouted a ballad that appealed to me, but I pulled out the plug and was stuck. Cold silence in a boring room. I’m helpless and dumb. I want to die suddenly, the tips of my cold limbs start to hurt. Tears dampened my pillow, even if the sight was pathetic no one will comfort me. If you wipe it with your finger, you’ll scratch the inside of your eye. The wound was red as the bleeding hadn’t stopped, the area where the blood was exposed was blueish-purple and in some places, it could even be beautiful. If I play with the wounds I put there three days ago, it hurts more than before, but it satisfies me. I don't want anyone to see me. When it becomes unbearable, I cut impulsively. When I cut my wrists, it feels like I’m free from my worries and anxiety. If I had to choose something I love , it would be my wounds. I have nothing. No hobby I enjoy, no ability to tout, even my head isn't right. I lived surrounded by kind parents, bad brothers, bloody conversations, and inferior items that were seen on TV. Since I was born to a mother who didn’t even know my face, and lived being beaten by my dingy father, I lack the sense of self-affirmation that everyone should have. For me, filling up my lonely time is synonymous with the pain of being alone with myself. At night when no one is anxious. The thought that started to fill my mind was that I wanted to be freed from the stifling tightness of my head. I let go of the plug that I held, and put on the jumper that hung on the rack.

          I was relieved by the feeling and presence that filled my hand. This daily routine, which is like sleepwalking, shows no sign of ending. I threw my key and cell phone onto my desk, and put my hand on the doorknob and opened the door. The smell of the night covers me with a sweet fragrance, so as to cover the scent of my room. The smell of the air is cold. The newscaster mentioned that it would be chilly. The thin pajamas, jumper, and sandals don’t stop the cold, but I can’t be bothered to change.


          I turn the key, and walk down the apartment stairs. I can hear the neighbour speaking, faintly and happily, I’m surprised that someone else is awake now. I want my sentimental nights, to be undisturbed by loud and messy noises. A group of foolish moths flock to a lamp, buzzing around it.

          For what purpose are we born for? In the end we’ll all be ashes. The number of people that can leave a brilliant achievement behind as their legacy are limited. The rest are desperately trying to be seen and recognized before they die. How valuable is life, when compared to all of human history? Walking through the street, passing through the apartment’s entrance. There was nowhere left to go. I laughed at my self. I caught a glimpse of the park slide illuminated by the street lamps, and unconsciously approach. When I was living with my parents, there was a park about twenty minutes away by foot

          In this park there is only a slide, sandbox, and a basic three-piece set swing, it seems that there is no jungle gym, or rideable panda. As I put my hand on the handrail of the slide, I feel the rough feeling of rust. When I was in elementary school, I made a pitfall at the end of the slide. It doesn’t change the fact that I hate the innocent children from that time. I walked up the stairs in a wobbly gait, but I was sleepy and as I squatted at the top of the stairs I remembered that I was drinking. As soon as I realized I was over come by an intense thirst. If I was attacked by a thug or a robber I would be unable to resist, like a newborn rabbit.

          It’s not like I wanted to be born. As I thought of this I became sad, and sobbed while feeling the cold metal of the slide. I cried while lying on the slide in the middle of the night, and thought perhaps I wasn’t a weak person, just a suspicious drunk. My crys echoed in my ears. Who am I? Twenty-three, crying in a park, is this my true self? “I’ll keep going.” The words I have heard somewhere before make my lips tremble. It was like a spell, I liked the sound of it. It means “I think,therefore I am.” My mind will reject my worthless body that my father abused, and I damaged. This is the first time I’ve seen my body like this. First of all, does what I’m even thinking about even exist? The soul of my uncle that left this world centuries before. If I cried for a while, my tears would dry up, and I would use them for for useless things.

          I don’t want to shed tears for myself, but for children. I am scum. The sky is getting lighter, the birds start to sing within the park’s thickets. The man in glasses who came to deliver the newspaper to the house opposite the park, looked at me and pretended to see nothing. You don’t want to see me, dirty, pathetic. When I look at the people who work, I feel lazy and close my eyes in a light haze of drunkenness. In my mind the man in glasses paints a scene on the backs of my eyelids, and fills it with a mosaic.

Table of Contents
Part Two