So as can be expected I am pissed the fuck off, and so I just wrote this out to vent.
Because using my problems to make good art is what I do.
Chris punched the wall, a deep satisfaction overtaking him as his fist crunched through the plaster.
He refused to question who he was, or how he perceived he was even if it was wrong.
He hated it. He hated it.
He turned to the bathroom mirror and stared into his own eyes, panting as he seethed.
His lip curled from fury, and he reared back, slamming his hand against the glass.
It didn't cave to his anger the first time, and so he did it again. And again. And again.
Only when the pieces of glass jutted from his hand and his reflection was distorted did he stop and take a breath.
But it only angered him more.
He ripped the mirror off the wall and threw it, hearing it crack and shatter on the floor.
He screamed loudly, kicking the wall with his foot.
He hated it. He would not bend. He would not cave. This was who he was and no one was going to tell him he was wrong.
Not this time. Not ever.
He raked his nails over his chest, hissing as the pieces of mirror scraped his skin.
"I WILL NOT FUCKING BREAK!" he screamed, balling his fists.
Blood dripped down his arm but he didn't care. The pain felt good. Really good.
The veins in his neck bulged as he screamed again, and the wall once again felt his wrath.
He pounded the wall as though it were the face of his aggressor, spewing obscenities and hateful words at it.
"You don't own me. You don't run me. You will NEVER define me! I ALONE DEFINE ME! AND YOU WILL NOT! NOT! TAKE THAT FROM ME!"
After that, the words he said were indiscernible, and all that could be understood was the word "fuck", which he repeated over and over as he punished the cracked wall again and again. mother of the groom and bride collections in vintage style
He'd spent too long being told who he was, questioning his very existence, for this to mean anything to him.
He didn't care how bad of a person it made him.
This was how he perceived himself, and fuck whoever tried to change that.
He was done. Done with arguing, and being mature. Done with trying. Done with being an adult who thought rationally.
So far all it had done was hurt him.
He'd already lost all his important family due to useless rumors.
What'd he have to lose?
He could live on the street. He would never return to his old, abusive home.
He wouldn't give them the pleasure.
But he also wouldn't sit around and take this. Even if he was wrong.
He didn't care anymore. He didn't need anyone. He didn't want to love or be loved, or deal with the responsibilities and the strings attached to those things.
FUCK family. FUCK friends. FUCK what anyone said about anything regarding his life. He was fine on his own.
So what if he got raped or killed? Serves him right. He couldn't care less, in all honesty.
This was mildly untrue, but fuck it. FUCK it.
He was hurt. He was angry. He was used (so he felt) and couldn't stand the treatment anymore.
Regardless if it was better for him or not.
He didn't care to improve anymore. He wanted out of this. It upset him. Made him doubtful. Made him bleed.
He was tired of his choices reflecting on others or hurting them.
He was tired of having to behave because his actions were a reflection of others.
He was tired of correction. Of love. Of respect.
He was tired of obedience, and dominance, and control.
It confused him and upset him, and though he knew he could, he didn't want to deal with it.
He...couldn't deal with it.
He was through.
Sure, he'd regret these decisions later...but he couldn't care. He wouldn't.
It was too much for him.
He couldn't handle it. He didn't want to.
Maybe he'd rushed too quickly, made rash decisions rather than thinking things through.
A mistake he made.
Because he was born.
He wasn't meant to be. He WAS the mistake.
And no matter how many people loved him and told him otherwise, he'd grown to accept it so deeply that it was irreversible.
He didn't want therapy. He didn't want to get better. He wanted to suffer because suffering was all he'd ever known.
And he was comfortable being miserable.
He'd probably be one of those guys who had a semi-good music career for a few years and then crashed horribly and died out.
Yes. That seemed accurate.
He kept losing hope. And once he gained it back, something else would weaken him and steal it away.
And he was tired of trying to summon it back.
This wasn't his life. He wasn't cut out for it.
He'd begged and prayed with his pure heart for a good life. And he had gotten it. And now he didn't think he could handle it.
He wanted to give up.
And give up he would.
All alone, make me bleed
Numb the pain, cease to breathe
Make me suffer, feed me guilt
And burn the bridge of what was built...