Trapped
Anthony lay in his cold bed, alone, just looking across to an empty corner then shutting his eyes to sleep again, but to no avail. He breathed a soft sigh and pressed his lips inward, trying to allow sleep to overcome him, but his stomach churned and his mind wouldn't shut off. This wasn't unusual for him. An overwhelming feeling of emptiness overcame him instead and he felt as though he were imprisoned in his own body. Then began the brooding thoughts that seemed to plague him every night.
Worthless
Pathetic
Ugly
What are you doing with your life?
Just kill yourself
His eyes clenched shut and he tightly gripped the sheet, enveloping himself in the covers and allowing less oxygen into his lungs.
He hated himself. He hated how he looked. His friends told him he looks great. The fans said he was perfect. Photographers and interviewers said he should be a model. He felt like the world was lying to his face. He changed his hair, fixed his nose, changed his style of clothing, but it didn't satisfy him. He bought games, movies, music, and possessions, but still, he felt nothing. Anything he tried, anything he did, it just didn't bring happiness.
He tried love.
He didn't even think he even genuinely felt it. He dated, sometimes months, sometimes years, yet he felt no spark, and even more importantly, no lasting feelings of contentment from any of it. So he left them all and now here he was. Cold. Alone. Wanted by everyone, but himself.
He would be sorely missed if he died. He knew it was true yet he sometimes convinced himself no one would care. His thoughts often dwelled on things like death. What would happen to the world if he died? How would he die? He'd never take his own life, would he?
He pictured his body mangled and bludgeoned in the center of the living room, or in a filthy alleyway. He often came up with new scenarios of his death, his friends finding his body, or no one finding him for days. What is it like getting stabbed or shot? One of the reoccurring thoughts involved Ian alongside him, the sheer look of terror on his face as a shadowed assailant struck him in the head, causing him to crash onto the concrete floor, the attacker looking in Ian's direction then running off. Anthony lay perfectly still in his bed, mimicking the pose his body would make if that sick fantasy were to become reality. He could almost feel the warm trickles of blood streaming down his head, passing his glazing eyes as the pain became so immense that it overloaded his senses. He'd never experienced something as painful as a fatal blow to the head, so he remembered a time he was a child and he fell off the top of the slide, landing in the dirt below with a crash of immediate pain and the cracking of bone. He used this painful experience to add onto his dark fantasy.
Anthony swallowed as his mind went to his funeral. His body stuffed full of embalming fluids and sawdust while his pale face is covered in makeup because now there wouldn't be any rosiness in those lifeless cheeks. Ian would stand over the coffin, sometimes he'd be in tears, other times he'd have a cold smirk on his face; the kind that made you sick to your stomach. He knew Ian wouldn't be happy to see him die, but nothing could stop the thought from clouding his mind.
Afterward he would be nothing but a distant memory. Video footage, photos, his legacy. It was only destined to be forgotten as the years passed. Even Ian would move on with his life, starting a new career, getting a family, living a full life. All that every person would want out of life.
Only Anthony didn't know what he wanted besides wanting to end it all. The outlook was not like him at all so even if he did kill himself people would question it because for years he had maintained this persona of fake contentment so well that he even fooled himself sometimes. He told himself he would never go through with it, even the nights his heart raced and he held a kitchen knife over a vein. He only pressed lightly, never enough to pierce the skin. Maybe he wanted to experience death because it was something different. It was so final. He'd finally know once and for all the feeling leading up to it up until the final beat of his heart, the final sight, his final thought and emotion. The end, but why?
The urge was there. Anthony pressed his face firmly into his pillow as he lay under black and gray checkered sheets, restricting his air passages. He felt a tightness in his lungs, the compression beginning to swallow him, while his body pled for air. His hands gripped he pillow and he pressed further, feeling his body begin to panic, yet forcing it to heed the irrational desire to end its existence. He began feeling lighter, and heavier at the same time. His mind flashed images of Ian walking into his room and finding the lifeless form of his best friend in bed.
Just a little more...
He was slipping away quickly.
The struggle became less and less after each second then finally it built up to the final moment.
And then finally. Finally there was nothing.
And he was empty once more.
Worthless
Pathetic
Ugly
What are you doing with your life?
Just kill yourself
His eyes clenched shut and he tightly gripped the sheet, enveloping himself in the covers and allowing less oxygen into his lungs.
He hated himself. He hated how he looked. His friends told him he looks great. The fans said he was perfect. Photographers and interviewers said he should be a model. He felt like the world was lying to his face. He changed his hair, fixed his nose, changed his style of clothing, but it didn't satisfy him. He bought games, movies, music, and possessions, but still, he felt nothing. Anything he tried, anything he did, it just didn't bring happiness.
He tried love.
He didn't even think he even genuinely felt it. He dated, sometimes months, sometimes years, yet he felt no spark, and even more importantly, no lasting feelings of contentment from any of it. So he left them all and now here he was. Cold. Alone. Wanted by everyone, but himself.
He would be sorely missed if he died. He knew it was true yet he sometimes convinced himself no one would care. His thoughts often dwelled on things like death. What would happen to the world if he died? How would he die? He'd never take his own life, would he?
He pictured his body mangled and bludgeoned in the center of the living room, or in a filthy alleyway. He often came up with new scenarios of his death, his friends finding his body, or no one finding him for days. What is it like getting stabbed or shot? One of the reoccurring thoughts involved Ian alongside him, the sheer look of terror on his face as a shadowed assailant struck him in the head, causing him to crash onto the concrete floor, the attacker looking in Ian's direction then running off. Anthony lay perfectly still in his bed, mimicking the pose his body would make if that sick fantasy were to become reality. He could almost feel the warm trickles of blood streaming down his head, passing his glazing eyes as the pain became so immense that it overloaded his senses. He'd never experienced something as painful as a fatal blow to the head, so he remembered a time he was a child and he fell off the top of the slide, landing in the dirt below with a crash of immediate pain and the cracking of bone. He used this painful experience to add onto his dark fantasy.
Anthony swallowed as his mind went to his funeral. His body stuffed full of embalming fluids and sawdust while his pale face is covered in makeup because now there wouldn't be any rosiness in those lifeless cheeks. Ian would stand over the coffin, sometimes he'd be in tears, other times he'd have a cold smirk on his face; the kind that made you sick to your stomach. He knew Ian wouldn't be happy to see him die, but nothing could stop the thought from clouding his mind.
Afterward he would be nothing but a distant memory. Video footage, photos, his legacy. It was only destined to be forgotten as the years passed. Even Ian would move on with his life, starting a new career, getting a family, living a full life. All that every person would want out of life.
Only Anthony didn't know what he wanted besides wanting to end it all. The outlook was not like him at all so even if he did kill himself people would question it because for years he had maintained this persona of fake contentment so well that he even fooled himself sometimes. He told himself he would never go through with it, even the nights his heart raced and he held a kitchen knife over a vein. He only pressed lightly, never enough to pierce the skin. Maybe he wanted to experience death because it was something different. It was so final. He'd finally know once and for all the feeling leading up to it up until the final beat of his heart, the final sight, his final thought and emotion. The end, but why?
The urge was there. Anthony pressed his face firmly into his pillow as he lay under black and gray checkered sheets, restricting his air passages. He felt a tightness in his lungs, the compression beginning to swallow him, while his body pled for air. His hands gripped he pillow and he pressed further, feeling his body begin to panic, yet forcing it to heed the irrational desire to end its existence. He began feeling lighter, and heavier at the same time. His mind flashed images of Ian walking into his room and finding the lifeless form of his best friend in bed.
Just a little more...
He was slipping away quickly.
The struggle became less and less after each second then finally it built up to the final moment.
And then finally. Finally there was nothing.
And he was empty once more.