Spotless Encounters

Spotless Encounters.

“A man is by definition the one he gives himself. A person is by definition the one that humanity gives it. But a human. A human is by definition an entity that is flawed perfectly.”

I don't remember much about that Tuesday.

I remember, though, it was very, very, dreary.

The clouds were particularly stifling and the rain had ranged from drizzling to a downpour. Big huge fat droplets of water that soaked through my clothes and made me shiver. I had not grabbed my umbrella and had a hoodie wrapped around my thin, lanky, body. My black, thick, curly hair  plastered to my forehead. My black converse thoroughly soaked and I am hunched over into myself.

I am walking forward. Just forward.

My mind kept shifting, like a terrible show, showing the devastating things I was walking from. Forward and away from the problems I couldn't face.

She's hitting me. He's furiously telling me I will always be a failure. Ignoring me. They are whispering about me. Why? What did I do wrong? What is wrong with me?

I remember that part of that Tuesday very vividly. My mind shifting, the awkward and numb movements of my limbs. Raindrops thumping on my skin. So numb. Cold. Thick. Air. Then suddenly I feel a stifling sob release itself from my throat. A gasp of air and my throat closing in around itself. The rain has mixed itself with my tears. My eyes feel itchy and I bring a hand, under my glasses, to rub them.

Everytime I close my eyes, all I can see is them. The ones who pushed me to be the disappointment I am today. The ones who told me how wrong I am. That who I am is wrong. I can't bring myself to hate them. How can you hate the ones who created you?

My legs begin to give out from under me. I finally realize the throbbing pain shooting through them. I look up from the side of street I had been walking on. I see that I am near a park. The rain fogs up my glasses and clouds my vision. I put my hood up and rub my glasses with my sleeve. It's a bit better. I begin to walk on the forest trail. After a few minutes I spot a bench. I'm already wet so I decide to sit. The rain is no longer thumping.

I pull up my legs and put my head on my knees. My eyes feel glued shut. I can't bear to open them again. But it is torture. Either open my eyes and face reality or close them and see the horrid things my mind refused to forget.

The rain begins to pour again. Rushing toward my body. Soaking me through my skin all to my bones.

I wince from a particular vivid image my mind has supplied. There is much shouting. A lot of screaming. Glass and wood breaking. My lungs refusing to cooperate as I flee out the door. Thump. Thump. Thump. The ticking of my life wilting before the very person's who created it.

She's yelling at me because I told her I liked a boy. He's cornering me asking me if I was a fag.  She's locking me in a closet. He's beating me. They are whispering.

My eyes blink. I open them. The world is so very gray. I sit with my legs crossed on the bench then. Rain pounding through my skull.

I don't remember that Tuesday very well, because I refuse to remember what happened next.

I am looking at the uninteresting trail. Staring at the bland ground, I smell a very heavy and undiluted scent.

The smell of rotten eggs.

My nose wrinkles and my eyes dry. I look up and my eyes meet a figure standing in front of me. I put my legs on the ground and sit back. I don't know what to think or say. My mind is utterly blank, except for the terrible images that would plague it for many years to come. The rain is pouring ever harder and my glasses begin to fog up again.