Page 20 of Fragmented Illusions
Some of us are simply born broken, one way or another. And I truly believe more often than not, people are damaged. We only choose not to talk about it or ignore it entirely because who wants to be broken, nor admit theyare? No one.
Not even me.
We all want to be healthy. Happy. Whole.
Why is the question you asked but instead, maybe you should ask, “Whom?”
I set my pencil next to my paper—at least I think it’s next to my paper, but I can’t see clearly. My eyes are blurry and when I blink, a fat tear drops from my tear duct and lands with a splash onto my paper. The liquid soaks into the paper and the words “the way we are” blur and warp.
I sit back from my hunched position over the desktop and tilt my head back slightly to help stop the flow of tears I can feel burning my eyeballs, begging to be released. I blink rapidly a few times to help get rid of them and when I feel confident I’m not going to lose it right here in the middle of class, I peer back down at my paper and take a deep breath.
Crying in the middle of class is most definitely not perfect.
Must.
Be.
Perfect.
I run my fingers through my hair to make sure it’s still in place after losing myself for a moment.
“Time is up!” Professor Lloyd barks out and I startle in my chair. My hands jerk out in front of me, and my pencil falls to the floor. Heat travels to my freckled cheeks as I feel a few pairs of eyes on me from my reaction.
Lloyd shouts every day in class and almost every time he speaks, so everyone is very used to it by now. Usually I am as well, but the stupid test messed with my composure and now I feel unsettled.
That question brought too many of my own to the surface and only sufficed to remind me I have more questions than answers.
And the answers I desperately crave are nowhere to be found—and never will be.
Sighing, I lean down to quickly pick up my pencil and then glance around me. Everyone is out of their seats and shuffling to Professor Lloyd’s desk, not paying attention to me. They all throw their papers on his desk and leave class, many of them already in their “groups.”
I walk alone and place my paper amongst the rest before briskly exiting the room. I don’t have another class until one, so I quickly make my way home so I can be alone for a few hours to gain my composure.
I don’t think I will ever be able to though.
Sometimes I feel as if I am constantly wearing a mask and the irony is not lost on me.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror in front of me. Some might say I’m vain, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I used to hate looking at myself. The very thought of seeing my own face was enough to send me into a destructive tailspin.
Before, I hadn’t looked at myself in over a year. But now that I’m better, I find myself constantly staring in the mirror—only for one very specific reason; to make sure my appearance is perfect.
I can’t only act perfect.
I have to look it too.
If I don’t both look and act it, someone might suspect something, and I truly can’t have that. So far, this year has been great in that aspect. The girls and I are as close as ever—well, not so much right now but that’s because we’re all so busy with classes and then with what happened to me, I pulled away a bit… But I know they won’t think anything of it.
I make sure to check in with them all via text every day. Even though we all live in the same apartment, we don’t see each other often with different schedules, et cetera, which works particularly well for me right now because as hard as I’m trying, I am frazzled, and I’m worried it will show.
I’m feeling myself losing my grip on my already very fragile reality. It’s slipping right through my fingers all because of two masked men.
Two masked men who have been dominating every thought I have.
I spin away from the mirror and shuffle over to my bed. I switch the bedside lamp off and crawl under the covers. I pull them up to right underneath my chin as I lie on my back. My fan is blowing a cool breeze through the room, giving a chill to the air, and making my nipples pebble underneath my thin tank top, even through the blanket.
I scrunch my eyes shut as I attempt to relax my body. It’s ten o’clock and I have class again at nine. I need sleep to help with the already very dark bags under my eyes, but with the way these last few nights have been going, it is not looking promising.
Every time I close my eyes, all I see are those white masks—splattered with blood.
