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My head is pounding by the time I walk through the door and I proceed immediately to the bathroom to get some ibuprofen.
My mind is still fairly numb from the memories of that night. The remembrance of the pain and agony causes the throbbing of
my brain to continue.
When I reach the bathroom, I close and lock the door behind me. Leaning on the sink, I close
my eyes, breathing deeply and try to relax myself. It works... until I look up and see my reflection in the mirror. I don't
even see anything. Just a shell. I don.t want to be cliché, but I look like I feel - dead inside.
The events of that
night, the ones far before I killed the wrong guy... Its just too painful to think about. Guilt is what my mind seems to be
focused on as well as my own torture. I think about what that man, the guilty man, did to me psychologically that made me
chase him the way I did. What made me so uncontrolled that I proceeded to shoot who I thought was him right in the forehead.
Just
with one night, my entire life changed and now... now I don't even know what is going on with myself. I barely feel anything
anymore. My mind has gone so numb. Sometimes I am happy it has; I don't have to feel the pain of the memories. But other times,
I wish with my entire soul that I would feel something, anything at all. Times like now.
Releasing a small breath,
I open the cabinet and snatch the bottle of pain pills from the shelf. There is a small rustle and clinking as a box of shaving
razors falls from the cabinet. A few of the metal pieces tumble out of the box, spreading all over the sink.
I let
out an exasperated sigh and firmly set the ibuprofen bottle down.
I pick up the razors, but the last one cuts my hand
as I try to place it in the box. The stinging begins and I hold my other hand tightly to the cut, trying to stop the bleeding.
It's only a small cut, but those are often the one that sting the most.
I clench my eyes shut. The bit of pain the
cut causes brings back memories like everything seems to be doing today. Not just memories of pain from that night, but thoughts
of an old habit rush in as well. I don't want to think about it.
The bleeding has stopped and I shake my hand to numb
it as I place the box of razors back in the cabinet with my other.
I down three small red pills and leave the bathroom
before I give in to the wanting that grows in me. My mind tells me to turn around and take the box out again, but I refuse
to. What's the point anymore?
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