Invisible Scars--a short story

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The day is fine. The morning isn’t great, but its durable once you get over the disappointment of waking. After you get over the haunting night. The night where all your worst demons come out to play. The night where you sit in bed and stare numbly in the dark, feeling nothing but the chills creeping down your arms and the scary feeling of impending doom. You don’t realize that you’re hyperventilating. The invisible scars across your chest, where you scratched and clawed, in hope to get one rattling breath into your straining and throbbing lungs, sear in pain only you’ve experienced. The voices sounding out across the house echo their way into your cracking shell, making you feel that much more alone. They cackle, laugh, and joke as if you’re not a couple of rooms away, praying to God to just take you early. Telling Him how they wouldn't miss you. How it wouldn't make a difference. Dry heaves rack your body in a poor attempt to shed the tears you need in order to find some wisp of relief. The bathroom mirror shows you your puffy eyes and smeared mascara, your lips close to purple and swollen, a look of loathing pasted on your red face. You hate yourself for crying, reminding yourself how so many people has got it worse. You weren’t abused, raped, not even neglected. Sure, you’re not anyone’s favorite, but at least no one really hates you. pathetic, you hiss at your reflection, scrubbing your face raw with wet wipes. Finally, when your skin is red, burning and agitated, you drag a tired hand over your face and make your way to your own room.

you know, before you even fall asleep, that none of the evidence of your midnight mental breakdown will show in the morning. No one will even notice the bags under your eyes. The invisible scars will be patched and ignored.

An issue better left unnoticed. Just like me.