My brother was doing that thing he did. That thing with the rag in the sink. It had always discussed me, but I couldn't"t stop him. Father was always at his throat about something he did or did not do; the only way for him to get the pain out was to harm living things.
I wanted to make him stop. I cried out, but he never listened. He had said it was better him than me. Why does this story have to be so gruesome? Why can't I see the better parts of life? Where is the beauty?
It was of no use. I'm now a rambling mess pushing the back button to undo everything I had just typed out in my head. I can't stand to talk this way.
"I'm the little voice inside of your head that wants to get out," it tells me. How many times must we play this game? I don't want to hide and I don't what you to seek. This game was never fun for me. Your always the one who wins. Can we just go outside to look at the hills, flowers, the trees? Anything else other than sit in this chair and tell you about my brother?
Only Uncle Bill thought that this was funny, the way that my father treated his own son.
I never liked that man, Uncle Bill. He was the drug user of his mother's side of the family. He once made me take a few pills. I tried to spit them back up and out but he held my mouth closed until I was forced to swallow. About an hour later, I was in the bathroom puking up whatever was left in my stomach. Nothing I ate would stay down, not even water; for days nothing stayed down.
But who cares? I'm here in this chair, away from Uncle Bill, away from my father and brother. They can no longer reach me inside here.
"I won't count on that," it says to me again.
I wanted to scream out. That was never a good idea. The times I did that, the nurses, who were always willing to administer some form of torture, were ready with a heavy dose of whatever came in the needle that they would stick me with and knock me out for hours.
"You can heal your affliction this way," it says to me again.
Nothing is more sweat than a little lie. I can't. ... I can't! ... I can't.
"Give me time to operate," it says to me. "I'll truly make you feel all better. Your sickness will be cured."
I can't take it any longer. How am I going to get out of the chair of which I'm strapped to? I can't move my legs or arms. My head is constrained to looking forward. The buzzing of the lies grew louder. But Uncle Bill, father, and my brother cannot hurt me in here. I'm safe. They are out there. I'm in this padded room with people around me who want to protect me from myself. My voice was being drowned out by everyone else living inside my head.
"You know how you can make this stop,' it tells me.
I know what that voice wants. I'm brought back to my brother doing that thing he does with the rag in the sink again. I'm going to scream. I can't. I cannot. It will always be with me. Why can't I just die?
Freewrite brought to you by @mariannewest
My Completed Freewriting prompts:
- Faster Than Light
- Cane (Bonus: Red Wine)
- A Ridiculous Amount of Fun
- The Entryway