Maybe the kindness of a stranger could numb the pain. [Music and Words] Oneshot.
Pain. A horrible blackness, a feeling that wells up inside you, washing over and engulfing any light that once may have rested in your heart. It eats you from the inside, starting in the deepest pits of your heart and gradually spreading outwards, destroying you until you are left with nothing but an empty, aching shell.
And it opens up other doors for other monstrosities that can invade your mind. Like the nightmares, the ghouls and demons that haunt your visions, the insomnia for the fear of that when you fall asleep, you cannot escape them. Then when you eventually have a peaceful sleep, you face the fear of waking up to the true horrors that caused this pain in the first place. Waking up to face the knife, the one wielded and driven so cruelly by those others.
Sometimes, with the right words and a kind smile, the pain can be fixed. But others, that knife has been driven so deeply, twisted so much that you can never truly recover. The edges of the wounds are to ragged to ever be truly stitched back together again. Not even the harsh pounding of drums and bass that played through my earphones could hold me together.
They say music is the best medicine. But you can’t heal something that’s died, whether metaphorical or not. I had been broken so much that I had died. And that leads to my next point; those people also say that you can’t break a broken heart. They know nothing. They don’t know what it’s like to have that knife, the hurt inflicted upon your already pain-filled self over and over, day after day after day.
I knew that feeling all too well and usually my music could help. But now, as I trudged down the dark, dank streets with it playing from my earphones, I still felt broken. I still felt empty as the bullets of rain hailed from the heavens, plastering my tangled hair flat down over my face and mixing in with the real tears that flowed from under my eyelids. Here was my only comfort, the fact that the weather knew how I felt, like the sky was crying with me.
If I was lucky, a truck might skid on the soaked road, skid off course onto the pavement and crush me. End my worthless life; remove the stain of misery that was my presence off the face of the earth. I was no more than nothing. I deserved no more than the ending of my life.
Of course, luck was never on my side. No truck appeared. I sighed and shivered, tracing my hands up the still leaking scars on my arms, my sleeves not just soaked from the rain. The tears welled up again as I looked down, examining the latest addition to the scars, this time not even self-inflicted. Ugly. That’s what I was. It fitted in perfectly with the rest of the scars, an awful criss-crossing mosaic of ugliness that decorated me, and matched me exactly.
I was ugly. That’s why nobody ever cared or helped. Who would want to even look at me, the pale, miserable, ugly boy whose eyeliner smudged with his tears and ruined his face even more than it already was? Who would even want to look at boy so insecure, so pathetic that he wore fucking eyeliner, for crying out loud? At least with the rain falling on my face as well, I could hide the fact that I was crying.
My breath swirled out in front of me as my feet carried me along the path. I had to force myself to stop, scrunching my eyes closed and grabbing harshly onto my forearms where the scars were. My hands acted like a bandage, blocking the flow of blood from some wounds... but some of the red liquid still leaked out of the others that I wasn’t blocking, like I was massaging it out of the slices that decorated my arms.
Because the self-destruction wasn’t just my own relief, wasn’t my own escape from the pain, but it was the doing of others, of the people who carried around their own tools to carve those sickeningly true words over the top of the others that were already there. Like that word, Ugly. And it was beautiful to me, I loved it. It numbed my own pain through another release of pain. It was like a numbing effect even if it still hurt. It was my Novocain.
"Hey?" I opened my eyes to look for the voice, the one that had come out of the darkness in front of me. A figure stood a mere meter away, carrying an umbrella and watching me. I shrunk back into my shell; right now, I didn't want anybody to help me. I didn't deserve their sympathy. I didn't want it. I nodded, partially to clear my own head and made to walk pass the figure. Before I could, a pale hand shot out, clasped my shoulder gently and pulled me out of the rain to join the mysterious figure under the umbrella.
"Sorry," I muttered, bowing my head and pulling my sleeves over the wounds on my arms.
"Why are you sorry? What are you doing out here?" he asked, (as I decided that the voice was definitely a male one). I shrugged and looked up at the guy, able to see him clearly now that I wasn't trying to drown my vision in the rain. A tall, raven-haired man with concern etched onto his pale face, worry reflected in his large, dark eyes.
"I..." my voice caught in my throat, unable to answer his question. The man smiled, but it wasn't a cruel smile like the one I was so used to seeing, on the faces of family and 'friends'. It was sympathetic, it was understanding. It was the exact opposite sort of smile that I deserved to see, because it was genuine.
"Look here, do you..." he started, but I cut him off.
"If you're going to offer me sympathy, you might as well leave because I don't want it." My voice was blunt and emotionless, a mask that had grown in my personality over the pain-filled years. A voice that hurt people in the way they hurt me because I couldn't lie to them.
"I was going to say, do you want to get a coffee? You look freezing," he said, his face clear of any hurt or anger that I had cut off his offer. I looked into his eyes, furrowing my brow and trying to work this man out. He hadn't offered to help me, which is what I never want people to do. It just feels fake, like all they want to do is to make themselves feel good, not actually caring about my own wellbeing. I don’t want them to care about my wellbeing, I don’t need it.
But this was different. He was just being kind.
The man held out his hand to me, not a gesture of greeting or of politeness, simply a motion of kindness. I inhaled deeply, pushed the negative thoughts to the back of my mind and took his hand. Maybe this man might actually be okay. Perhaps his kindness might numb my own pain. This man might become my own Novocain.
Things might just be okay.
I wrote this a while ago but had deleted it in a fit rage. I deleted a lot of my stories earlier in rage fits. But here it is. It's the darker side of Novocain, but I'm very proud of it. Because Novocain numbs pain, does it not? I wasn't in the best mood when I wrote it, and for the dark, evil sides of emotion, it does the trick pretty well.
The characters there are supposed to be... anyone. I'm not sticking the roles to any particular character, because it's such a vague topic that it can affect anyone. So... yes, the characters can be whoever you want. Please Rate and Review.