‘The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Done’ by Haya Aman

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“Nathaniel!” It’s a stunning day! The air is crisp and the sun is out. Don’t you think it a good idea to go out and play?” My mother chirped while pulling the curtains back as if to emphasize her point.

I groaned like the whiny, adolescent, introvert fifteen year old boy I was.

“I don’t want to”, I huffed for easily the umpteenth time before going back to sketching the dark angel of death that often visited my dreams.

I tuned my mom out as she yapped endlessly about fresh air or something. With a final roll of my eyes I jerked my head towards her sharply.

“I don’t want to go, okay? Just bug off.”
I abruptly stood up.

Marching to my room I felt my frustration bubble up and threaten to explode. I did not need to go out. Going out was not a real escape. Going out was what got me into this emotional turmoil. I needed a permanent escape.

Once in the safe sanctuary of my four walls, I pulled my Beats over my ears effectively blocking out my mother’s calls for me. Closing my eyes, I let it transfer me into another realm.

Three hours later, I aroused from a slumber I did not mean to fall in and doused in a fine layer of sweat.

The nightmares would never leave me.

I could not escape in my sleep or conciousness; I would never be able to escape that night. The night everyone who promised me they would ever be there for me failed me. I was alone that night and no one seemed to hear me. No one came to my aid. No one saved me from the skeazy man who stole my innocence, my teenage years.

Sobs racked my body as I relived the man in his cracked brown leather jacket and crooked tar stained teeth smiling at me. His wide, black irises bore straight through me as I cried for him to leave me alone. A low chuckle falling from his wrinkled, chapped lips as he finally managed to corner me. My eyes shut tightly as hot tears fell down my cheeks. I had to fight the memories off, or I would die trying.

My back arched off my bed. I wailed louder. A whimper escaped through my lips, betraying me as I tried to pull myself together. I could not take it anymore. I padded through my bathroom, gasping on air. I knelt on my knees, filling my bath tub with hot, relaxing water and clambered in still lost in my thoughts. With each aggressive grunt that haunted me came a sharp blade slicing through, creating another three beautiful gushing, red slashes to mare my pale skin. My vision began to blur at the edges threatening to take me under. I couldn’t stop though. I couldn’t tear myself away from that night; it had become me. A small broken sob could be heard before everything went black.

I assume the paramedics came in time. In time for them, too early for me. I assume my mother somehow managed to open my locked bedroom door and find me drowning in my own blood. I assume they all were worried for me. I assume they stressed over my mental health. But then again, these were all assumptions. What I can confirm is that (I do not know how) I ended up very much alive in a hospital bed.

I huffed a final breath to my therapist. Wrists bandaged, I blubbered in an attempt to stop crying after recounting the past three months. My cheeks were stained with the infinite tears that were shed in the past hour. I knew the worst was over. I continued to feel unsafe, loathe myself, feel disgusting in my skin, lingering uncertainty and fear but the hardest part was over. I managed to tell someone my darkest secret of what happened that night. I took that most difficult, first baby step forward to recovery.

About froebelianwriters

I am an English Language teacher teaching O'Levels Edexcel and CIE A Levels at Froebel's International School, Islamabad. I am also working as a Subject Specialist Literacy consultant for the same school. Writing and reading has always been a passion and I try my utmost to instill these habits and hobbies in my students as well. I can be reached/contacted at fabbas227@hotmail.com or 03365287335 Happy reading!

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