And if I bleed, you'll be the last to know____Taylor Swift
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Shame enveloped me like the sweltering heat of summer—a season I've always despised. The oppressive warmth made the world feel sticky and sickly, a sensation I was all too eager to escape. It was a battle to break free from the mental cage, to spread my wings like a bird desperate for flight.
But this shame was a different beast. It infiltrated every pore, every nerve, every bone, every cell. I strove to be at ease in my own skin, barely covered by the lightest fabric, attempting to meld into the crowd, praying my struggle remained unseen.
Then, in an instant, my world tilted. A sudden thud, and darkness engulfed me. I found myself on the scorching sand, the aftermath burning into my consciousness. The air, already stifling, now seemed to sear my skin with the added heat from below.
Have you ever been hit on the head?
With a ball?
On the beach?
From my new vantage point, the sky took on a different beauty, and the birds—mere silhouettes against the sun—appeared to mock my misfortune. The sun's rays, though brighter from down here, did little to dispel my growing gloom.
I regretted leaving the safety of my home, yearning for a rewind in time to bask in the sunlight from my beach house balcony. Instead, I lay on the ground, the center of unwanted attention, the butt of the joke.
"Are you okay?" A shadow offered respite from the relentless heat. I looked up to find a kind stranger offering a hand, their face etched with concern.
"I am fine."
The mantra I had been repeating to myself—daily, weekly, monthly—felt hollow, yet I clung to it, standing unaided. I had learned to be my own pillar of support. Dependence on others was a luxury I could no longer afford.
Once, in the spring of my life, I had leaned on others, but that time had withered away, leaving me to face the summer's blaze alone.
"I am sorry," the stranger said, echoing the words that had become my bane.
Why the apologies? Why the need to err only to utter 'sorry'?
I left without a backward glance, fleeing the scene as if it were a sin, escaping the laughter and stares that made feel like an alien from millennium, that labeled me a misfit in life's grand scheme.
I kicked a stone in frustration, glaring at the traffic lights, cursing everything under the sun. Bitterness consumed me, and I yearned for solace.
As the sun dipped low—mirroring the ebb of my spirits—I sought refuge in a bar, amidst a sea of strangers and the numbing comfort of cheap liquor. The pole became my stage, the cheers my fuel. Yet now, I sit in solitude, nursing a beer, observing the paired masses.
Everyone was in pairs, except for me.
"Trying so hard makes you look lonely," a voice whispered, slicing through my tumultuous thoughts.
I turned to face the speaker. It was the man from the beach.