I am broken.
There is no better way to describe me than that. I sometimes sit outside the local school and watch the little children play in the playground, laughing, running around, pulling hair, falling over and crying. I watch them not because I am some sort of weird paedophile but because I envy them.
I envy them because they are at the age of not knowing what stress is. They don’t know worry, they have no concept of depression. I sit there and I watch their innocent faces and while I envy them, I sometimes can’t help but pity them. The things I have been through not just physically but mentally; I wouldn’t wish on anyone. At the moment the only thing they have to worry about is the amount of homework they are given. I remember at that age I used to fear detention. Having to sit quietly in a class room for 30 minutes as punishment? At this point in my life I would love nothing more than 30 minutes of quiet.
I watch these children and they have a whole life ahead of them. They will be around long after I am dead, they will have their own lives, wives, husbands, heart-break, mishaps. These children have at least 14 years before life even really begins. Some will be able to handle it, some won’t.
They truly are the future. I always imagined myself being in school and someone seeing me and thinking exactly the way I do now. This small planet we live on and so much has happened. It was no wonder why my favourite subject was History. Wars were fought, people have risen against the social norm to do what was right; billions have died. Just so I could exist right here, right now.
I wish I could just grab the children by the shoulders and tell them all how it is and to cherish every moment. But it’s something they have to learn themselves over the course of time.
Maybe they will accomplish to make something of themselves, something more than I have managed for myself. Maybe they won’t lay in bed at night staring at the ceiling wishing for change.
Maybe they’ll have people to love them. People tell me they love me, but I know they don’t.
I am told that I am a good person. But how can that be after the things I have done in my life? My so-called friends are the type of people who would somehow get themselves into trouble and I would be the one person they could rely on to get them out. I have broken bones, I have hospitalized people, I have… well, done far worse just for the sake of friendship.
Is it appreciated? No. Instead I have been given the stigma of being a loose cannon. A violent person. But I am only violent because friendship has dictated it. I am always the person people turn to; to help get them out of trouble. Does that make me a friend or a necessary evil?
Would they ever help me if I were in the same situation? I am not sure the answer would be yes. Not when all of the good I do can be quickly forgotten whenever I make a mistake. I have been so in love with people its actually hurt only for them to tear out my soul when I do wrong. Even people so close to me that I couldn’t imagine my life without them, actually saving them from certain death at times telling me what a horrible person I am, what an evil person I am just over an argument about something stupid.
And they say they don’t mean it afterwards and laugh it off all the while not knowing the damage they have caused me.
Sometimes it leads me to think they are right. But if I am evil that’s only because of the things I have been asked to do in the name of friendship, people think I have become numb to what’s right and wrong but trust me when I say I haven’t.
“Why are you in a bad mood?” You may ask. How can I tell you that mentally there’s nothing left but a shell? How I can’t sleep at night because my head is filled with evil thoughts; how sometimes I just wish even my “closest friends” would just fuck off and die. I don’t like thinking that way but I can’t help it.
“Why do you always look so tired?” Because it’s taking every bit of energy I have to just keep it together, to just stop myself from snapping and going on a murderous rampage… to try to block out the voices that tell me to do bad things.
Whose there for me really? No one. Only with the people I care about when I am needed. When they need something doing that they can’t bear to do themselves, “Call upon the necessary evil and make him do it and he will do it because he craves to feel wanted”.
Is this what life is meant to be? It surely can’t be. I see my friends being happy, I see them without worry. Out having fun all thanks to the things I do for them and they never consider inviting me along, of course not. I’m not yet needed. This is why my mind generates evil thoughts, this is why I wish they were as miserable as I am.
As I watch the children I remember what I was at that age; so full of promise, so full of life and in a strange twist of fate it only took two decades to make me wish for death on a daily basis. To go to sleep and beg whatever God exists to not let me wake up.
In a strange way, watching these children enjoy themselves helps put my mind at ease, it helps me forget everything just for a moment. But before long I’ll have a vibrating pocket and after a knowing sigh I’ll pull out my phone and read a text message from a “friend” telling me that they need my help yet again.
I’ll sit there for a moment and ponder whether or not to just pretend I haven’t read it but the “good” inside me won’t let that happen and ultimately it’s that “good” that’ll force me to be the unappreciated necessary evil once more.