“I don’t want to live anymore.” I said loudly, my tone whiny and complaining, just like how it always sounded.
“Then, go kill yourself. None’s stopping you.” The old forty year old woman replied. Her white loose gown was showing off too much of her wrinkled cleavage, making me wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“I hate you, Zeda.” I grumbled. “I hate everyone. If my heart was a beaker, this feeling of hate would be overflowing from it, going through my veins to my brain and polluting it horribly.” I shook my head in self-pity. “I don’t want to survive anymore.” I said
“Go kill yourself. I don’t understand what’s stopping you.” Zeda repeated, with her mouth full of the bite of sandwich she’d just taken. “Stop bothering me.” She added.
I looked around the room, hoping something interesting would catch my eye.
But there wasn’t anything irregular.
The huge cafeteria was painted white. Too white. White enough to cause dizziness. There were a lot of people sitting around on the cold and white marble benches keeping their food-plates on the white tables. Almost everyone was dressed in white.
It made me sick.
“I hate that there’s no color here.” I muttered. “The lack of color in this place kills me every day. I just wish I could see some colorful things, like flowers or paintings. I never thought I’d miss seeing a rainbow this much.”
“Quit whining.” My acquaintance said. “Just shut up and eat your food. You know you’re not getting any after four.”
“I’m not hungry. I hate the food here. I miss my Mom’s cooking.” I sighed, in order to ignore the stab of pain on my left side.
“If you’re not eating, can I have your dinner?” Zeda asked, hopefully.
“Yeah. Go on.” I said, handing over my food to her.
“You should eat, you know.” Zeda said hesitantly. “You skip too many meals.”
“I’m never hungry and you always are. It’s not skipping meals, I’m only feeding you.” I defended myself, weakly. “Feeding the hungry is never wrong. My Mom used to say that.” I sighed again.
“She sounds like an amazing person.” Zeda said unwillingly. She looked down at her plate and silently talked to herself, about her own kids who had been killed in a terrorist movement during the time of some revolution in her own country in Asia.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
I know that I’ve asked her this question so many times but I always forget the strange, unfamiliar name.
“I..I don’t remember..I think it was Iran or maybe Iraq. I’m not sure. I think I lived in a city called Esfahan..Or not. I’m not sure.” Her face held a strange expression, like she was remembering something else. Then suddenly, it twisted into a rueful smile. “I can see so many colors there.” She said. “It’s so beautiful, Kiera. So pretty. Fascinating…” She trailed off.
Suddenly, her face changed. The small smile in her lips slipped away. Instead a set of frown replaced it. Her eyebrows were drawn together in concentration and confusion.
“What?!” She screamed, making me jump from the cold marble bench.
A wave of fear washed through me mixed with guilt. I should not have talked about home with her. We don’t have a place we can call ours anymore, I repeated to myself. We are a social burden, something that must be gotten rid of. We are dangerous and pathetic beings. We need other people’s help and support. Most of all, we are shelter less and weak. I shouldn’t have talked about home with her, because she don’t have one anymore. She’s homeless.
We all are.
“No! No, no, no! They’re not dead.” She continued shouting. “No! Stop, you’re lying! NO! My children.. My small children, no, no…”
The pain and despair was clear in her voice.
Too clear.
The sounds of her scream reminded me of my own wounds. My own pain, my scars. I shut my eyes, and shook my head fiercely, refusing to show any kinds of weaknesses.
I will not cry here. Not in front of everyone. No.
I raised my head to look around me.
People were staring now. Even the patients who had been quiet, lost in their own imaginary worlds were looking around, searching for the source of such a noise. The canteen women were looking at each other in confusion. Two nurses and a doctor were running towards Zeda. One of the nurses had a long injection in her hand while the doctor was carrying a black briefcase.
I flinched, knowing what was coming next.
Zeda was still screeching, but the sound had lost the energy now. Her voice came out rough and scratchy as she whispered over and over again.
“My children.. my beautiful, soft, fragile children.”
I shivered and brought my knees to my forehead and I hid my face between them, as if hiding from the scene in front of me would free me from my torturous world.
I rocked back and forth on the bench, not caring if anyone’s was staring.
How did this happen?
Everything was fine till five minutes ago. How can things change so fast? How? How could I be so stupid? I should have known that she would have reacted that way, but, I still had to be so foolish that I asked her about her home. About her home. Her home.
Home. Home. Home.
Does that even exist for me anymore? Does that word even mean something to me now?
Does anyone even live out there in my small, cream colored house back in Manhattan which used to be my home, my parents’ home, our home?
I put my hands on top of my head, trying to lessen the pain.
The mental torture.
Does anyone even care? Does anyone even know I exist, anymore? Did anyone, ever even care? My teachers, my neighbors, my aunts, uncles, so many cousins? Where are they today? Where?
My closest friends? My so-called boyfriend? Did he ever even love me, like he’d stated so many times? Did he even know what I was going through right now? Did I ever even matter to him, like he did to me? Where is he today? In college? Doing what? Making girlfriends? Did he even miss me, like I missed him?
I tightened my hands around my head.
It’s too much. I miss Mom. I miss my parents. I miss being warm. I missed colors. I missed good food, my soft bed, and my Dad’s useless jokes. I miss how Mom and Dad used to bicker uselessly. I miss sharing lunch with my friends. I miss sitting in class throwing paper at random people. I miss having to sit on detention for being late. I miss running in Gym. I miss school, my friends. I miss going to amusement parks, going on rides. I missed watching movies, reading romance novels, fighting with friends, joking around with them.
I missed him.
My heart clenched uncontrollably at the memory of his face. Those soft blue eyes, his large warm hands, light blonde hair. His smile, his dimples, the sound of his laugh, his voice. His arms around me, my hands on his chest, feeling is racing heartbeat.
Stop. Stop.
Stop.
I let out a loud scream of frustration.
“Stop!” I said. In the midst of this chaos, I felt someone grab my arm and a saw a flash of white. A doctor? A nurse? I don’t know—or care. I pushed the hand away from me, recoiling from the touch. I closed my eyes in panic.
The images played through my head like a whir land of memories.
My dad lying on the floor with a butcher knife through his heart. His eyes open—staring vacantly at space. Blood pooling around his dead body.
Blood.
His blood.
“Stop. Please, please, stop. Make it stop!” I sobbed brokenly.
My mom’s loud, shrill scream calling for help filled my ears.
Mom.
My Mom.
My fragile, soft, warm Mom.
“MOM! DAD! Stop, let them go. No, no, no, no…”
I was on my feet now, still shouting. Shouting from pain. Shouting for help.
The broken feeling inside me started to spread everywhere.
Distraction. I need a distraction.
I want to hit something. I need to hurt myself.
Blade. I need a blade. I looked around desperately to find something.
Somethng. Anything. Anything to help me forget this pain.
The hopelessness washed through me like the water washing away the sand.
I fell on my knees.
Weak. So weak. Broken. Helpless. Pathetic.
I’m pathetic. A collection of shattered soul. I’ll never be happy again. I deserve this. I deserve all of this pain and hurt.
I deserve this.
My body felt like giving up. I don’t know how but I knew that I had curled into a ball as if it could resist the war in my heart. As if this whole thing could be somehow over and everything could be replaced back to how it was. As if I could be whole again.
I put my hands on my head pulling it towards my knees.
The movement hurt my back, but not enough to distract me from the brokenness inside. I kept trying to bring my head towards my feet, wanting to feel more of the physical pain. I still failed to forget.
I don’t know long I struggle like that. It might have been minutes or hours but finally I gave up.
The pain in my heart was finally replaced by numbness. A deep, unending, long, silent numbness.
This is heaven, I thought. I wish I could stay like this forever. No feelings. No hurt. No betrayals. And no pain. I could even be happy if I was given the chance.
I closed my eyes, hoping that I wouldn’t have to feel tomorrow. I wished I could pause this moment for the rest of the eternity.
But, I guess a part of me knew that this numbness wouldn’t last for a long time. After a while, I’d wake up and start to feel things. Start to feel feelings and live through death every day. My heart quivered uneasily at the thought.
“But, I don’t want to live anymore.” I whispered to myself. “I don’t know if I can live anymore.”