12 years old - Entry No. 22

I hate you. I hate the way you walk. I hate the clothes you wear. I hate the way you talk to your mother on your cellphone at 10:00 on a Friday night in the back of a convenience store. I hate your kind. I hate humans so much that I do everything to avoid them all the time, but even I, the sneak in the night, the resident of dusk till dawn, cannot escape every voice every day. Even when I am locked up in my room all day with the shades drawn and the loudest music blazing in my earphones with the thickest sheets wrapped around me, even I, cannot escape every single voice that is aloud in the hell that is my mind. 

I hear their voices each day, going up in desperate prayers to false gods, their cries of pain as they watch their lovers walk away forever, their empty sobs as they mourn the loss of their unborn child.

I cannot escape because they have already spoken, and I have already heard and it is recorded in my brain until those people are dead.

I hear their cries. I sense their pain. I cannot escape it. It reaches out to me in body and in spirit. Every time I look at their eyes in the check-out line, every time I brush their arm when getting off the bus, every time I watch them reach up to pull a food item from the shelf at the grocery store while they are wondering if they should put back that foot massage machine so they can afford a healthier breakfast cereal for their daughters. 

I hate the people around me. I hate the breaths they take. I want to stop them from living so I can stop feeling their pain. And what is worse is that I know how I would do it and how I would get away with it. But the worst of the worst is that I never can, because I know the truth of life and death and pain and suffering. I know who controls it all and who I would have to answer to.

Author's Note

This is neither the beginning nor the end.