[Present Day, Nell Solomon's POV]
"Has your wrist ever spoken to you?" It asks me.
I stare at the ceiling and wonder how many people stare at the ceiling when they feel lost. I am not feeling lost. I do wish to disappear. Sometimes. It is an old wish. The soft skin on my wrist often itches. My fingers lose strength sometimes. I am haunted by a wound on my wrist that has never been there. I know that these thoughts are bad and I shouldn't be listening to them.
Thoughts are like clouds. They come and go. But some of them stay for a longer time while they cover the sky and prevent the sunlight from reaching us. If we hold on a little more... just a little more... The sunlight should break out. It should happen one of these days. You have been waiting for so long.
Sometimes, you don't want to hold on. You are tired and numb. The dullness in your soul is growing every day. You are used to it. The hope is starting to feel like a poison in your soul. Isn't it better to stop looking for the sunlight?
"Yes, it is."
It laughs at me. My heart feels like it's been stabbed by needles. I don't feel like laughing. Still, I let out a snort. I have nothing to long for. My dreams have turned into goals. Those goals are nothing but excuses. I know that I am only trying to feel like a human with ordinary goals and desires.
Sometimes, all I want is to be like everybody else. Then, how do I know that they are not like me? Fighting their demons every day and growing numb to the artificial lights of the cities? Are we all turning into lost creatures? We have each other and yet, we are the most lonely creatures in the world.
"What does it say?"
What does my wrist say to me? Nothing grand. Just because something is trying to speak to me, should I be listening? In the end, it's a figment of my imagination.
"Maybe, it is." The voice becomes solemn. "Your imagination is still a part of you."
"Good point," I mumble. The ceiling is unchanging and boring. I don't hate it though. "You are also a part of my imagination."
It chuckles. "Something you created out of boredom."
"I am glad that you don't have a face or a body," I reply to the demon in my head. My demons are quite active. My angels gave up long ago. "It would have been fun though."
"If you weren't so afraid, you could have seen me." The demon is quite sarcastic. Then, it's part of me. I am not complaining. It's fun to have a voice in your head that made fun of you. You are never lonely. "You haven't told me. What does it say?"
"If you are a part of my mind, you should already know it."
"Oh, I know."
"Then, why do you waste your words asking me something that you already know?"
"Pfft! I love talking." The voice sounds quite crazy to me now. Does it not mean that I am the one who is crazy? I know that I am not normal. I am only missing the official label given by a professional.
Never mind.
I shall hide it. If I am found out, the world will either stab me with pitchforks or look at me with pity. Though I don't mind being stabbed by harsh or emotional words, I don't want my daily life getting disturbed by people who can't understand me.
When I can't understand myself, is it fair to ask others to understand me? I don't think so. I am okay with this slow degradation of my soul. The devil in my mind is entertaining. It is better than most humans I have met.
"Hahaha!" It laughs. "It's because I am a part of you."
"If you were me, I would have slit my wrist long ago," I mutter under my breath. I don't live alone. But, my family doesn't find me odd.
"I try to convince you every day, but you still cling to hope that is nothing but an illusion."
"Tell me something new." I climb off the bed. My mother is watching the politicians cursing each other in the news channel.
The hot topic is the pollution level in the city. K City has been listed in the top ten polluted cities in a report published by a world-leading magazine. The opposing party is blaming the current government. The current government is blaming the previous government AKA the current opposing party. It's every day's story.
"The world is turning into a fun place," It replies with a solemn voice. Yes, it is a solemn voice in my head. "The pollution in the city is high. Your eyes burn when you stay out for a long time. We are slowly dying every day. Is it any different than the time when Hitler trapped humans in the gas chambers?"
"It is different." I pour the noodles in the boiling water. Noodles are my saviour whenever hunger strikes between lunch and dinner. "There's no Hitler. We are doing this to ourselves."
"Why bother killing yourself when the air is probably giving you lung cancer at this very moment?" I can feel it roll its eyes. "Say, do you still feel it?"
I don't bother clarifying. The devil in my mind always ends up asking me the same question. My wrist is itching again. What do I desire? Nothing much.
My name is Nell Solomon. I am a shitty writer. My only wish? I want to disappear.
At the age of twenty-seven, I should have my own place. Many people might say that I shouldn't be living with my parents. I shouldn't be a burden.
In this world economy, Millenials are fucked. Nobody can convince me otherwise. Even if they scream at me with facts that Generation Y is not fucked, I won't believe them. Look at the prices of the houses or the rising rents? Can someone who is just a struggling writer afford something like that? I already have a student loan debt that gives me one more reason to contemplate death over life.
"You should have gone for a stable job." The devil in my head whispers to me, "You are another fool who is chasing her dream. How many people like you are there? It's a rat race in the end."
Those are the words of the parents of the smart ones who chose right. They often brag about it to my family. They often blame my mother for raising me wrong. She defends me every time, but the disappointment in her eyes is clear.
They are right about one thing. I am another rat in the race. I am a rat who doesn't care anymore. I look forward to the day when a cat might come and eat me.
There are countless people like me who are struggling to breathe every day. People like me can't complain. If we complain, we should be ready for someone who would prove us wrong.
Someone will point at the person in a worse situation and holler, "Look at that person. He's homeless. Look at that part of the world that is starving to death. Look at those people who don't have warm clothes to survive the winter. If you have a roof over your head, food in your belly, and clothes to cover your body, you are living a better life than them."
"Are you?" It asks me. "Even if you have a roof above your head, it's not your house. Even if you have food in your belly, you only eat to keep your body alive. Even if you have clothes to cover your body, you still imagine drowning yourself in an icy lake. Even if you have people around you, you still feel alone."
I have nothing to say. In the end, people like me can't complain. We have more privileges than half of the people in the world. Everyone has a certain degree of loneliness. Some have more. Some have less. There are people like me who change this loneliness into solitude and befriend the demons in their minds.
"Yes, yes, we are friends. Now, go and kill yourself."
At least, the devil in my head is honest. Honest friends are rare breeds. I ignore the voice and gobble down the bland noodles. Did I forget to add the spices? I will eat it since I made it.
"You don't even know how to cook noodles."
After finishing my noodles, I wash the bowl in the sink. Every day seems mechanical. Get up in the morning and go to a part-time job to make a living. Write at night. Sleep. Get up in the morning and resume.
In the middle of this monotonous daily schedule, talk to the voices in my head and endure the emptiness that is eating me alive. I know that I am growing a little more apathetic toward myself, my family, and the world every day. I don't know how to stop it. I don't want to stop it.
"What is waiting for you on the other side, Friend?"
"I am also growing numb toward you." I look at my distorted reflection on the surface of the bowl. "You don't affect me anymore."
"That's what you think."
There's no point in arguing. I get out of the kitchen. The familiar sticky feeling in my panty is back. Though I know what it is, I go to the washroom to check. I sigh when I see the blood. I insert the tampon. I wash my hands. Without a doubt, I am going to have cramps later. I should keep the painkillers ready.
"Painkillers are bad for your ovaries."
Why does it matter? I don't even plan to have children. I want to spend my life alone. My only goal is...
"To disappear someday."
I wish I had the superpower to erase my existence. But, I know that my mother will be unhappy if I disappear. Besides, if you have been caught cutting your wrist a few times, you tend not to take risks while killing yourself. Surviving a suicide attempt is worse than dying. It's better not to try suicide at all.
"You are just hoping that a god fairy will appear and grant your wish."