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Qualität des Beitrags: Beteiligte Poster: benedikt Forum: http://www.haderrsr.iphpbb.com Forenbeschreibung: Diskussion und Veröffentlichung aus dem Unterforum: Alles andere Antworten: 1 Forum gestartet am: Dienstag 06.02.2007 Sprache: deutsch Link zum Originaltopic: trauriges Englishes Gedicht "The Happiest Day" Letzte Antwort: vor 16 Jahren, 11 Monaten, 2 Tagen, 9 Stunden, 16 Minuten
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Re: trauriges Englishes Gedicht "The Happiest Day"
benedikt - 23.05.2007, 13:07trauriges Englishes Gedicht "The Happiest Day"
Ich will meine Aussage im Thread "Wut" mal verwirklichen. Die folgende Kurzgeschichte habe ich vor ca. 4 Jahren verfasst. Damals ging es mir zwar psychisch nicht wirklich gut, aber wenigstens war ich aus dem Schlimmsten raus. Das nur so als Hintergrund.
Vielleicht entfacht das Ganze ja mal eine Diskussion, mal sehn. Auch Kritik, solange sie konstruktiver Art ist, wird gern gesehen. (Damit schließe ich Dinge wie "Ist mir zu heftig" o.Ä. aus.)
Kleine Warnung: Der Text ist auf Englisch.
The Happiest Day
She had been sitting in that filthy alley for hours, fondling her father’s neatly decorated Asian knife. Shiny gemstones were put into the silver handle, all of which were crimson red from the blood streams covering them. The actual color was not to be seen, hidden by the fluid flowing steadily from the hand holding the knife. Tiny drops fell into the small puddle of rainwater which had been growing ever since it had started raining, right after she had left the house. Big and heavy raindrops fell from the solid black sky, making the sound of millions of small stones falling onto the muddy ground. Water was constantly dripping from her hair and long sleeves. Her black makeup had left black lines on her cheeks because of both the rain and that salty liquid restlessly coming from her eyes. “Tears”, some called them, but she didn’t. For her they were her soul, her thoughts, her emotions pouring out of her body. Sometimes she wished it was blood, just so it would be more painful. So she would feel alive.
She stared at that one black spot between the two empty, filthy, closed-down houses the rain couldn’t reach, where it was dry, her eyes empty. She didn’t want to go there. Right now, she preferred the rain, the cold, although she was already soaking wet. Her lips were blue and that birthmark on her upper right arm had turned dark purple, she knew it. But it was not the cold from the air and the rain that had made her heart freeze and beat this painfully.
For the first time after more than three hours of sitting there in the rain with her left arm wrapped around her legs and her right hand on the knife, cutting her fingertips and palm open, she shifted her position. She dropped the knife into the dirty puddle and pulled a picture out of the back pocket of her dark blue, flare jeans. She stopped breathing there for a moment as she looked into the smiling faces of her parents and her own in between. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was blue and dots of light, falling from between the leaves of the beautiful, green trees, fell onto their clothes and faces, lightening them up a little. She could hear the birds singing in her memory. She frowned. What an ugly photography. She hated it. It showed her real pain, the pain she had been feeling for years now. Everybody else loved it. They didn’t see what she saw. And they hadn’t been there.
It had been in one of those famous, expensive garden-restaurants. Her parents had been screaming at each other hysterically over her head. Arguing about the fact that her father wouldn’t make it to her birthday because of some big business meeting overseas. Not like they had asked her about her opinion. She really didn’t care anymore. She had gotten used to it. The last time her father had been at her actual birthday had been when she had turned six or seven. She didn’t even really remember it.
Tears had come to her eyes then as she was trying to ignore her parents’ hateful screaming and the looks of all those stuck-up people. She had pushed away her plate, trying not to show her vulnerable soul again. It was then that this photographer had shown up and, with a very thick but fake Italian accent, had asked them to smile. She had immediately covered up all the pain and anger, just like her parents had bottled up their fury. And the man had taken the picture she was now holding in her hand and stared at with those sad, empty eyes. Everybody loved it, except for her. Was she really the only one who could see the tears sparkling in her eyes, the red face her father would always get when he got angry? She could still hear her mother’s voice, slightly hoarse from yelling and screaming at her husband, whisper loudly. “We’ll discuss this later.” And she remembered that discussion perfectly when they had gotten back home. It hadn’t been very nice…
She put the soggy, wilted picture back into her pocket. Although she hated it so much, she always took it along, no matter where she went; she always had it in the back pocket of her jeans. She kept it as a reminder for how fake the world truly was. She kept it, so she would never forget that all this was unreal. So she could stand the pain better. She picked up the knife and flinched. He hand was all cut up, still bleeding, and the slight pressure and dirty water made it hurt badly. But she grabbed it and closed her hand around the blade. Fresh blood ran down the knife and dripped into the puddle. At least the scars wouldn’t be visible once it all healed. It would look like her normal handprint. That was what had happened before. Until then she would have to wear her thin, black satin gloves. But actually, this time, she didn’t want it to have to come to that point. She wanted to end it this time. Like she had planned to do a long time ago. Like she had tried to so many times before. But she had been too scared. Too weak. And still, she knew, there was nothing to hold her in this world. Nobody. She didn’t believe in the Afterlife, at least not really, but it couldn’t possibly get any worse than this, could it? She took the knife with her other hand and pulled it out of her own grip, pushing it against her palm, making the blade cut even deeper into her flesh. Again, fresh blood ran down her wrist, another wave of pain ran through her body. But why didn’t it help her? Why didn’t the pain in her hand release the pain she felt inside her? How could it possibly be that she just couldn’t seem to make that pain in her chest go away? She wanted to let it out, so why didn’t it work? It used to work perfectly that way! Why not this time? She just wanted it to go away, to leave her alone for just a little while, make her stop thinking! Desperate and scared she started cutting her arms open, frantically, tearing her sleeves apart, staining them with blood. The echo of her angry and anguished screams came back from the walls of the filthy buildings and moved farther into the darkness of the alley, where it died. Her rage wouldn’t stop until she could hardly breathe and the knife fell out of her hand and into the puddle again, making a quiet splashing sound. She now noticed that the first so heavy rain was starting to clear up. After a while the drops of her blood fell more frequently than the raindrops. Exhausted from what she had just done to her body, she lifted her head so it would rest on one of the empty, old trash cans behind her and looked up. The sky was pitch black, but since the clouds were slowly moving on, she could now see a few stars shining in a bright white color against the sky. She started to shiver. This was the first time in those many hours that she really felt the cold surrounding her. Carefully, she started rubbing her upper arms to warm herself up just a little bit but quickly stopped as it hurt her cut up palms. Her breath was slowing down but it seemed to take a lot of her energy. Why was all this stuff always happening to her? She wanted to finally leave this place, end all this pain! But she couldn’t. It just didn’t work. What was there to keep her from getting it over and done with? Was there anything? She wanted it to end, she wanted all those people to see what they had done to her; she wanted her parents to finally see how much the other meant to them. And she didn’t want to have to listen to their fights any longer… They always argued about her, she was the real reason they argued, even if they denied it. She remembered the last time she had tried to make them stop fighting, to tell them how much she suffered because of their fights. How depressed she was. How she didn’t have any friends at all. Just because she was different. Because she didn’t talk about boys and fashion. She had screamed at her parents when they wouldn’t listen. “Look what you DID to me!” And she had revealed her arms to them, scarred, some cuts still fresh, not thinking what she was doing. Her soul was pouring out of her eyes then. They had stopped arguing immediately and looked at her, shocked. She remembered that her father had started yelling at her, beaten her, that her mother had broken down and fallen onto her knees in front of her, crying. Two days later she had found herself in the big, red armchair of a psychiatrist’s office. But she had never said a single word. He had eventually given up on her, leaving her to her destiny. And now everything was the way it had been before. Nothing had changed. At least it hadn’t lasted very long. Now, five months later, she was here, in this dark alley, soaking wet, sitting between rotting garbage carelessly thrown into the mud, her arms and hands bleeding. She hated life. She hated her existence.
After a few more minutes of staring at that dry spot she could have sat in for all those hours, she picked up the knife once more and slightly washed off the blood in the puddle. Just a few raindrops were still falling from the disappearing clouds. This was it, she thought, this was her cue. It just felt like the right time. She held out her left arm and bent her hand back. She couldn’t see the vein running through her arm or the blood pulsating through it underneath her flesh. She could barely see her pale skin in the darkness, but she knew it was there. She knew exactly where it was, what to do. She wiped off the blade on her jeans and slightly went along her arm with the sharp blade. It felt nice. This knife had been her friend for a long time now. It had helped her. Helped her let out the pain. With one strong movement, she thrust the blade into her wrist, cutting deeply into the flesh and the main vein. A scream broke the silence of the night and a pigeon that had always been sleeping in her presence, flew off into the darkness, startled, scared, ignoring her sin. And although she could hardly stand the pain, she pulled the knife towards her body, cutting her arm wide open. Blood ran down her arm, dripped down her elbow and onto her jeans, first like heavy, crimson rain, then like thick syrup which made its way down her leg and into the puddle that quickly turned into a reddish color. She started to feel sick, like she was going to throw up or suffocate. After less than half a minute, she started shivering badly. It hurt when she pulled the blade from her wound and dropped onto the muddy ground, powerless. It certainly did hurt. But her heart didn’t It was just her body. Her heart didn’t just feel numb, either, like it had all those other times. And for the first time in her life, tears of joy came to her eyes and she smiled an honest smile that had been gone for so many years. But it should be the very last one to come to her lips, before her body grew cold and lifeless, whilst the blood was washed off the knife by the rain as the heavens cried.
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