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Wynn
I was bornwith a bad heart.
Literally and figuratively.
I’m the cold-hearted villain in everyone’s story, according to most of my loved ones, while ironically also having a heart condition that will eventually kill me.Lucky me.
If this is God’s great design for me, then I’m good.
I’m tapping out.
The blood runs down my fingertips. It’s colder than I thought it’d be. It isn’t painless like some people say—no, it very much hurts.
Red dropstap tap tapon the tiles beneath me, making it hard to focus. Difficult to remember the good things that are supposedly due to flash back.
Only the bad ones come to mind. The heinous people and all the things they’ve said; the things I’ve said too.
Whoever coined the phrase “sticks and stones” is an asshole, don’t you think? Words indeed hurt more than stones. Thanks for trying to gaslight me out of it though. It didn’t work.
My name is Wynn Coldfox. I'm twenty-six years old and I want to die.
Iwantto die.
There—I said it.
Does it change anything?
Does it shock anyone, the people who secretly knew but continued to call me things likeevil, a miserable bitch, a monster?
The answer is no, probably not, maybe mildly.
Sometimes the darkness inside me thinks that this is what they’ve wanted all along—for me to finally give in.
Well, welcome to the shit show.
The curtain is finally closing.
* * *
There will never be a way to explain why I am this way. It’s something that you endure wholly, entirely. A deep and empty pit inside your flesh that never closes, no matter what you try to fill it with. No matter what thread you try to sew it shut with, it gapes and itches. An emergency exit that waits patiently for any who stray.
My doctor says it’s a chemical imbalance in my brain, and fuck, they’re probably right. But it doesn’t stop the very real, un-chemical, rawnothingnessthat ravages my entire being. The pills don’t help, they never have, and none of my therapists seem to understand why I’m so fucked up.
They think I’m faking or something. Let them speculate.
I stare up at the plain ceiling of my hospital room, trying not to look over at my brother. I’ve been awake for at least an hour now and neither of us has uttered a word to the other.
“Why?” James finally asks with his hands clasped in front of him, knuckles white. His navy-blue suit is sleek. Expensive. The black watch on his wrist is new too. A gift from a new lover? A present to himself for being so successful? I don’t bother asking.
“Don’t, James.” I take a deep breath as I sit up in the bed, reluctantly meeting his gaze.
“Why can’t you just… not be likethis?” My brother runs his hand down his weary face. His brown eyes are heavy with grief and anger.
Yeah, because Iaskedto be like this.
“I’ve tried to explain this to you many times, James. You don’t get it—you never will,” I mutter unenthusiastically. I used to get upset when he’d ask. But luckily for those who haven’t experienced it themselves, it is a hard feeling to understand.
