The journey from relatable to repulsive was not one I was conscious of making. At my age sadness is not shunned, it begets gentleness, fosters a general sense of connection with peers. Had I told anybody I was sad, I might have been met with kindness.
I wasn't sad though, I was sick. It is easier to console a person who is merely unhappy than one who is rotting from the inside out, easier to feel sympathy for someone who doesn't look like they are the perpetrator of their own undoing. But a perpetual state of disintegration cripples you and most importantly, makes you prone to your own cruelty.
Cruelty sounds like violence, but it is often a lot more like apathy. Disregard for one's own flesh is perhaps the most ruthless act a mortal can commit against themself. Even animals lick themselves clean. A soul that cannot revere the sanctity of its home, the body, is a pitiful thing.
I found myself lacking that very primal instinct of wanting to preserve my mortal garb. Indifference bloomed where there should have been concern.
Isn't the body but a vessel whose upkeep lies in the hands of its inhabitant? If they shirk away from that responsibility, mustn't it go back to earth? I would ask these questions aloud hoping for my bedroom walls to echo back an answer.
(The answer being, "Yes, you no longer deserve this body. Like a toy uncared for, it must be discarded.")
I hoped that death would notice this negligence on my part and claim me, out of spite. I hoped my ingratitude for my human form would trick divinity into ridding me of these chains.
However, despite the dirt under my finger nails, and the cracked soles of my feet, I remain alive. As it turns out, the body does not care for the discourtesy it is shown. It is the work of the devil, I tell you, disguised as a blessing. He enjoys seeing my spirit squirm inside a derelict abode I have long forsaken in esssence.
The body is like a wretched pitiful dog, it never leaves. There is only one way out of this prison—it ends with me becoming a murderer. And the thing is, my hands may already be stained red but I refuse to do death's dirty work for him.
