Hurricane

I wrote a personal essay/short story and i don't really know what to do with it so here it is. 

It’s Friday the 13th, somewhere between midnight and dawn. You’re sitting in the middle of your bed, your knees pressed up against your chest; you can almost feel them making their way into your ribcage. It’s the middle of January and you’re sure that outside it’s close to thirty degrees, but you can’t stop your body from shaking. Every breath you take feels like a jagged blade is making its way down into your lungs and then causing mayhem once it’s there. Your arms are wrapped around your legs, pulling your knees closer and closer to your chest. Maybe they’ll get close enough to keep you safe, maybe they’ll get close enough to stop the breathing. 

As if you weren’t already cold enough, a pool of tears is collecting on your t-shirt. It’s turning the once bright white into a dull grey. A dull, wet, grey pool of tears is sitting on your chest, with every drop feeling like ice against your skin. You’re asking yourself ‘how did I get here? how did I let this happen?’. You’re a victim that only blames yourself. Taking another breath, another jagged razor blade breath, you look around at what your life has become. Constant reminders of a man who told you he loved you and then ripped you apart. No, constant reminders of the many men who told you they needed you, and then swallowed you whole, leaving nothing behind but an empty, lifeless shell. 

You used to consider yourself strong. You were brought up that way. The women on television were superheroes, believed in themselves and they stood up for what they believed in. And you thought you were one of them. But when? When did you ever come close to their standards? When did you ever stand up yourself? When did you let yourself become this broken? You had a million chances to take control, and instead you broke down your walls for men who told you what you wanted to hear. And what good did that do?

You’re still sitting on your bed. Every tick of the clock feels like a pounding in your head. The kind of pounding you only ever feel after a bottle of gin and a few mistakes. Focus. You have to focus. Where did you go wrong? When did you become so weak? Another second goes by, the pounding in your head won’t stop. It’s like someone is trying to bang the truth out of you. A pounding so intense its causing memories to flash behind your eyelids. Bright lights filled with bad decisions. Imagine an old slide projector, cycling behind your eyelids. Flash. Scene. Flash. Scene. Flash. Trying to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong. Cycling through the memories until something sticks. FLASH. 

You’re not sitting on your bed anymore. You’re in the back of a boy’s car and it’s New Year’s Eve. You’re 20 years old and even then you think you should know better. You tell him you’re tired, and you just want to sleep. He’s repulsive, everything you’ve always tried to avoid. As he leans in closer, you can smell the Jack on his breath, and the stale cigarette stench is seeping out of this clogged pores. ‘Okay, we can just be friends’ he whispers into your ear. You believe him for a second, until you can feel his hand creeping up your thigh. You don’t want to do this. You push him away as the goosebumps begin to crop up all over your body. You tell him no, and you believe him again when he says he’s sorry. Except now he’s kissing your neck. Now he’s telling you that you’re all he’s ever wanted. The smell of Jack is sickening. You push him off, he pulls you closer. You say no, you scream NO. But your protests go unheard through the pounding against your thighs. Your body just lays there, lifeless. You’ve given up. When did you get so weak? FLASH. It’s two years later, and you’re still laying there, motionless and unfeeling. He’s still pulling you closer, he’s still telling you he can’t live without you and he’s still pounding against your thighs. When did you get so weak?!

The pounding in your head gets louder. Another flash. Another scene. And suddenly you’re 19 and you’re telling a boy you love him. You’re opening yourself up for the first time. And he breaks you down. He stands there, the coke still specked around his right nostril. At first he says nothing. He just stares, but then the bricks come crashing down, suffocating you. He tells you he’ll never love you. Standing there, with his power white nose, he’s telling you he’s better than you, too good for you. You’re gasping for air, but the more you try to breathe, the more you feel like your lungs are filling with the tears you’re trying to keep from streaming your your face. He’s still there, staring at you, wiping his nose, saying he wishing things were different. Saying he wished you were better; offers you a line to ease the tension. You’re getting in close, the rolled up fiver between your thumb and index finger. Your body is shaking. He tells you again that he’ll never love you. You inhale, and he tells you he’ll keep you around, ‘cos you’re a good fuck’ he says, like he’s doing you a favour. Where did your self respect go? The next thing you know, your clothes are off and so are your inhibitions. Flash. It’s six months later, and you’re in London. It’s 4:30am and you’re sitting on your luggage in front of Kings Cross station. You’re sitting on your luggage and crying, not because you’re lost, not because its 4:30am in a strange city and you’re homeless. You’re crying, telling yourself you lost the love of the life. Telling yourself you lost the greatest love you’ll ever experience. Blaming yourself. You’re not young enough, you’re not pretty enough, you’re not smart enough, you’re not good enough for a drug addict with no life ambition. Where did your self respect go?

The pounding in your head won’t stop. It’s getting closer to dawn, but the light outside is nothing compared to the bright lights behind your eyelids. Flash. Scene. Flash. Scene. Flash and it’s your eighteenth birthday. You should be drunk and happy but instead you’re lying on your back in a park near your house and your best friend is pinning you down onto the cold grass. “I know that you love me too” he says; every word causes you to feel more and more nauseated. He leans down to kiss your neck and every fibre in your body wants to scream. You want him to get off of you more than you’ve ever wanting anything before, but instead you just lay there, numb to pain and frustration. Flash. It’s two hours later and he’s laying on your couch telling you he loves you, and how glad he is that you finally let yourself love him too. Your body is still screaming as tucks your hair behind your ear. You don’t say anything, you just sit there, every part of you tearing itself up over this one-sided love affair. Where did your self worth go? 

FLASH. You’re crying because a boy is called you baby just to get his hand in your panties, and then never called you again.

FLASH. You’re a wreck because your boyfriend is talking about your future plans, and then shoving his tongue down your best friends throat. 

FLASH. You haven’t left your bed for a week because you told a boy you loved him and he called you unloveable. 

FLASH. You’re sat in a bar alone, your martini filled with more tears than gin because a boy you don’t even know stood you up.