One lonely chapter
Tears. Tears that run down my face. Tears that carve lines of wetness into my cheeks. Tears that trail the roads thousand of other droplets have already taken. Tears that glitter in the darkness, reflecting the moonlight that falls through my window.
My gaze lingers on the long effigy of light, divided by the shadows of the windows’s crossbars. The pale dot reaches up to my crossed legs as I sit on my bed and weep for the life I could have had. For the childhood I should have had. For all that laughter and happiness that was stripped away from me.
I am pathetic, am I not? Crying in self-pity. I am well. I am alive. I haven’t lost any limps. My family is with me. I haven’t had to kill someone. I was only forced to watch one person die. I lived through war and came out of it whole and intact.
Physically.
Even socially. My father escaped prison again by giving a mind-blowing speech at his trial and bribing the right people. All charges against my mother and myself were cleared. I am a free man.
So what is wrong with me? Why does just thinking that sentence makes me cry so much, thinking I should be happy? I should, shouldn’t I? I am good-looking, I have a lovely family, I don’t have to grieve over lost ones. I have money and power. I have good grades and a whole live ahead of me.
What reason do I have to shed tears? But still I do. Still I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop waking up in the middle of the night, frightened, holding onto myself and desperately asking for someone who is not there.
I have everything I need, haven’t I? I am everything I want to be, am I not? So why do I behave like a child in the dark, screaming for someone to take me into his arms and protect me?
I am pathetic. I cry because I know. I feel pathetic because I cry. And even if there was someone to hold – I’d just feel worse. There is no one out there able to save me. It’s just myself. And I am not strong enough.
It’s what you call pathetic.
