You shall die!

"You shall die", they shout at me while I am passing by. 

I just keep on walking with that expression that doesn't express anything; with that deafening silenced voice that tells me that I'm to blame for everything that's happening; that I am not as happening as I think I am and that there is no way in which it all could fit in. With all my thoughts dimly blurred and my dignity scattered all around the floor; with my aching soul that whispers in the back of my head that I should stop it before it's too late; with that evil voice that sings its lungs out that it already is too late. There are so many thoughts and feelings running through my head, running rampant in the back of my chest, beating and drumming at a syncopated time, that I am not able to realize which one of them I should pay attention to. Were these feelings to silence for good, I would pick up the pieces of the dignity I have smashed to pieces and leave quietly. Smashed to pieces, just like the mirror in my bedroom should be before it smashes me.

There is a long way to go before I could reach the end of the corridor. They shout at me while I am passing by, and I just keep on walking with that expression that doesn't express anything. They will not stop mocking this. If only they could realize how deep some razors cut. It's the disease of the age. It's the disease that we crave.

They laugh at me, they mock what they think is my feebleness. I close my eyes and push the books against my chest, and continue walking as if nothing were happening. They think it is fun; well, it isn't! Many people die because of this, because they cannot find a way out. They are consumed by their doom even before anyone else notices it. I'm not like those people; I pretend that I am okay, that life continues as ordinary as usual, but deep inside I am drowning and yearning for help. Drowning. How could I drown if there is no liquid going down my throat and into my nose? It doesn't make sense. And then I wish they take me seriously. What a paradox! I expect them to stop mocking this state of decay I am in when I am the one who causes it.Maybe we're victims of fate. 

I binge as much as I can and then stick my fingers down my throat, or even, when my parents do not realize, I stop eating for days and even weeks, just having yogurt as the one and only meal of the day. What a clever boy you are, I think while I crack the mirror till my face has no longer a human shape. And then I weep myself to sleep because my knuckles bleed their blood dry.

It started as a game two years ago, when I thought I could make a hell of a cool guy if I did something of that sort. I was meant to be the loved one; all my peers were supposed to feel attracted by the same stupid idea and then I was going to be their leader. For once I was not going to be left aside during Physical Ed lessons. I should have known that I wouldn't be able to control it. Now I can't stop. I'm screwed. I can't ask for help because they manage to make me feel that, one way or another, this is my fault, that if I started this I should be able to stop it whenever I feel like it. Well, breaking news, I'm not. I'm going batshit everyday, every minute that passes by, and the worst part is that I want it to end; I just want to die. Yes, I want to die. I no longer remember when it was that pucking and inflicting pain to myself became more important than living and breathing. I don't remember, I swear and I apologize. I'm sorry, I didn't want to die. It's just the way it is. If only I could, I would stop this. But I can't. Please don't blame me. I'm just scared.

I try to hate them, to ignore them, to silence them, to stab them in the back till they're no longer alive. The dead do not talk, that's why I stab them. I pretend that I am ok, that today's the sun on me, that I'm happy even when they shout at me. I try to feel something different from pain. But that's just the rub of all of this, isn't it? I can't feel anything, and I'm not referring to my stomach. I can't feel anything at all. We think that pain is the worst feeling; it isn't. How can anything be worse than this eternal silence that allows me to hear my consciousness?

They always shout at me while I'm passing by. I know I look disgraceful being so skinny and awkward. My throat is in knots, but I continue walking, choking back the tears. At the end of it, I'm a paragon of survival, aren't I? Sometimes I wish I could see a light at the end of the tunnel, for I would be able to believe that I'm not that gone. But yes, I am. I'm batshit gone. I'm moving backwards every time I step forward. Protect me, protect me.

"You shall die, eating disorder!" I shout while I am leaving the building.