//------------------------------//
// I'm Sorry. 
// Story: Night Of Faded Sun 
// by Soufriere 
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Morning. I think. Or is it evening? I don’t know the day, nor do I particularly care. The sun tries its damnedest to worm its way through my window, but I put up blinds and heavy curtains to stop it a long time ago. My bedside lamp is more than sufficient. Natural light is not comforting to me; it’s oppressive. I guess that’s a little ironic considering my motif is a blazing sun. Soon enough the unwanted errant bits of light are gone. About damn time.

As I slowly force my mind into some basic level of coherence after yet another nightmare – this one involving a palace guard crashing my scooter into a red dumpster; I can still hear the metal crunching and glass shattering – I wonder if it would be preferable for my consciousness to remain addled. After all, even a horrible dream is better than bleak reality.

I haven’t spoken to anyone in weeks. Except to check my mailbox – only ever bills and junk of course, plus occasionally venture out into the cold unforgiving neighbourhood to buy food… okay, it’s just to the convenience store set up in the ground floor of my apartment building, but it still requires me stepping outside for thirty seconds – I haven’t left my room in weeks, either. Why should I?

A sharp pain stabs my lower back, soon followed by a twinge in my left leg. Briefly, I wonder if I might finally be developing some sort of affliction that will finally take me out. But I know better; it’s the natural side effect of spending over twenty hours a day in bed. My mattress now has a permanent sag as a result.

I loll my head to my right, away from the blank grey wall, to stare into the disaster area that is my bedroom. I haven’t cleaned in months. Clothes and junk mail lay strewn about the floor haphazardly. I try to keep paths clear, but the glossy paper gets stuck to my bare feet and tracked everywhere. “Why don’t you just throw it away?” one no doubt asks. Well, that requires doing something, and I just don’t have the drive.

I see my hair. While I like having it long, the fact that it’s naturally wavy and I rarely brush it means it’s a tangled, matted mess. Washing it helps only slightly. Brushing hurts. So I haven’t attempted it in days.

Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I took a bath or washed clothes. Maybe I should at least clean these pyjamas, as the sweat stains have become pretty obvious and… yep… I smell rank. But why bother? I’m not leaving, and no one is coming to see me, so there’s no one except me to care if I offend.

An ancient (by its standards) laptop computer sits on an overturned milk crate next to my bed. I bought it shortly after I arrived in this world, and it has served me well. However, it was one of the last of my personal items I named – Cream-Puff – not sure why it took so long. I briefly open it. The screen lights up to reveal a half-finished short story I intended to send into the Canterville Literary Quarterly. Freelance writing makes up the bulk of what I do to earn income, but I haven’t touched finger to keyboard since I hit that mental block. I try to read my story… ugh. I shut the computer without bothering to check any social media (too depressing anyway). Its light suddenly cuts out like a refrigerator’s.

Light and sound waves operate differently; the former cannot travel through an opaque surface, while the latter can if not sufficiently blocked. In other words, I may not know what time it is, but I can still hear a cat outside my window. I live five storeys up, so is the cat in a neighbour’s window? On the fire escape? Maybe on the roof? I’m not willing to go check. But its crying sounds so forlorn, like it’s the end of the world.

I understand all too well.

I’ve lost everything. Or did I, perhaps, not ever have anything to begin with? Was the last decade of my life merely an illusion created by my mind to keep me from understanding the bleak reality, knowing that once I saw the truth, I would snap?

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the others: those five girls who professed to call themselves my friends. I believed it too. But I quickly realized it wasn’t my place. I didn’t share all of their interests and it was getting too hard to fake it. Given my attitude towards them in the past, I feel so awkward around them now. I love seeing their smiles. They’re such wonderful people. I don’t deserve them.

So I’ve given up.

It’s easier this way. I came into this world alone, and I’ll leave it alone.

They’ve probably forgotten about me by now. Part of me hopes they have. Some tiny part of my brain screams in an infinitesimally small voice that I’m wrong, that I need to keep trying. What a fucking joke. It is quickly drowned out by the basso profundo wailing of my subconscious. Despair. Regret. Jealousy. Hate.

Slowly, I roll out of bed. Once I’m to my feet, I carefully navigate the path through the junk to the door. From there, I make my way to the kitchen. The rooms are dark, lit only by a night light plugged in near the sink, and the off-white carpet insulates me from the winter I assume is swirling around outside. It feels as if I’m in a dream, oddly less real than my nightmare. Or is this the nightmare?

I step onto the linoleum of my tiny kitchen. Damn, that’s cold! Okay, this is almost certainly reality. I turn on the light above the stove – it’s a low wattage so it doesn’t hurt my eyes too badly. To my left is a pot filled with water in anticipation of boiling ramen noodles. Sorry, pot; I haven’t felt like eating for a while. Same to you, tea kettle; making tea is just too much effort right now. Besides, you remind me of Her. Off to my far right is the sink, piled high with dirty dishes. I haven’t washed those in at least a week. The stagnant water at the bottom smells odd. Usually, I wash a dish right before I use it, whereupon it’s dirty again. So what’s the point?

In between is the silverware drawer. I open it. Thirty-six stainless steel utensils. Including steak knives. I pick one up and study it, making note of its tiny serrated blade. This will do nicely.

As if in a trance, I make my way back to my room, shutting the door even though I’m alone. Force of habit. Someone might be watching me through an invisible camera.

The inside of the door has a tall mirror screwed onto it – it came with the apartment. The weak, jaundiced light from my lamp makes everything seem grimmer than it probably is. I see myself. I look even older than my age. As expected, my hair is a complete disaster; it looks like I was electrocuted (that might be an interesting way to go). My eyes are sunken, bloodshot, and rimmed with bags. My mouth has settled into a permanent frown. For once, I don’t bother talking to myself. I got sick of hearing me a few days after everyone else did.

Who are you? I silently ask my reflection. The fallen prodigal daughter. A complete failure in two worlds. A manipulator, a bully, a liar. Beneath contempt. Beneath forgiveness. I glare at myself, who glares back.

I turn away from the mirror. I don’t want her to see what I’m about to do.

I hold the steak knife in my right hand. Briefly I think about how hands were a nearly foreign concept to me, wondrous dexterous things I’ve learned to live with for about a decade. What good are they if the rest of the package is rotten? I press the knife against my left wrist, perpendicular to my ulna, and keep it there.

Worthless Sunset, useless Sunset, hopeless Sunset. I apply more pressure. My brain starts registering the sensation, at worst mildly uncomfortable. After a minute, I lift it away. No cuts, but a few tiny indentations. Sigh.

My mind is a whirl of thoughts, all memories and sensations melding and crashing together somewhere in the limbic system in a cacophony of emotion. It hurts. All I see is regret – at the ponies and people I hurt, at the sins I committed, at the oh-so-many missed opportunities. I can never change the past. I can never fix my mistakes. Forgiveness is an illusion, for the blot on one’s cosmic record is there forever.

I hate this. I hate everything. I hate my enemies. I hate my friends. I hate you. I hate myself. I hate that I hate. I want it to stop.

This is stupid. I’m acting like some over-emotional whiny teenager… rather, I’m losing myself in a role I’ve been faking for years. I should have grown out of this. I’m a loser, a taker, a parasite, a fucking snowflake. Pathetic. Awful. …Screw it.

I hold the knife against my wrist again, empty my mind, and slash in a rapid lateral motion across my skin.

What they don’t tell you about this method of self-harm is that you really don’t feel much of anything at the instant. A slight discomfort maybe. I stare at my handiwork. Not very deep, just a few tiny pockets of blood slowly seeping out; I must have hit a capillary. They’ll dry within half an hour or so.

I feel nothing, physically or emotionally, except for disgust, but I cannot be certain from whence it comes – am I disgusted because of the act itself or because it did not go far enough? Either way, it serves only to make me angrier. Visions of my friends and acquaintances going on with their happy joyous little lives dance through my mind. All that smiling and euphoria, it sickens me. I want them to feel despair. I hate myself for having such feelings about those who deserve only love.

I find another spot on my wrist, further in from the first, and slash again, this time harder, deeper. Okay, that time I felt something. The pain receptors in my brain light up; my subconscious begins screaming at me, “What the hell, girl? Why??” I ignore it as I observe my handiwork. More blood burbling up from the slashed capillaries, a brilliant red eventually dulling to brown. Still not enough to need to go to the hospital – lucky, as I cannot afford such a luxury – but this will definitely leave a scar, which I guess is what I wanted. Maybe? I don’t know. Why do I do this?

I hold my arm in place for several minutes to give the blood time to dry and scab over. Then itch – yet another thing no one tells you about this sort of thing. That done, I flop back in my bed and try to drift off into a dreamless sleep, finally allowing the tears of self hatred to flow.

I’m sorry. You deserved better than me. Everyone did. 

I’m sorry for taking up your time. I’m sorry for failing you.



I’m sorry for being born.



Maybe tomorrow will be brighter?