The darkest things I know are not mine to tell. You see, I grew up easily ignored. I followed rules, I shut up, I completely disappeared. By the time I was eight, I thought I was incapable of crying because I refused to let myself break down. The only thing I allowed myself to do was listen.

I grew up in a small town, everything was gossip. And I heard every detail. I could tell you the names of people who were raped. Children who hurt their parents so badly they considered suicide. Names of kids and adults alike who killed dogs and threw cats for the fun of it.

I knew military guys who held regrets and kids who had to cry themselves to sleep every night because of their pasts. I knew people who got off easy for crimes they should have been put into prison for.

I knew and I never told a soul, because these secrets are not mine to tell.

My last case as a psychiatrist was the case that changed my life.

The young woman who turned my world upside down. Made me question the

unquestionable, made me search for the real meaning of life, and opened my

eyes.

This is not my story, this is hers. I made a promise to tell it exactly how it

happened, and this is me fulfilling it.

Dedicated to the late Miss Kristina. May you enjoy your afterlife, as you would

call it, and thank you for everything.

As I walked into that white room, all I saw was emptiness. A beautiful blonde

woman, with a spark in her eyes, like a comet travelling through the universe.

The beauty on the outside, and extraordinary depth on the inside.

I opened my notebook, and started my psychoanalysis.

I started with the basic question.

Doc: Who are you?

K: – I am nobody. I am everybody. I am you. The Yin and Yang. The Alpha and

Omega. The infinite power of the universe. A form of energy, recycled, over

and over again.

Doc: You like to speak in metaphors, don’t you, Miss Kristina?

K: – Don’t you, doctor?

Doc: Don’t change the subject.

K: – I am not changing the subject, because the subject does not exist.

Doc: What do you mean?

K: – I mean, how do you know you even exist? How do you value your

existence? By what you accomplished? By defining your purpose within time?

Doc: Okay, you went off track now.

K: – No, you are off track. You must understand, time does not exist. The rules,

morals, and purposes do not exist. Society made them up. And do you know

why?

Doc: Why?

K: – To limit us. To limit our energy. There is a world beyond your imagination,

beyond your rationality, beyond your expectations.

Doc: You’re talking nonsense now.

K: – Because I tell you things you ignore? Or because you buried those beliefs

when you stopped being a child?

Doc: I am gonna leave now. You’re clearly not in the mood for telling the truth.

K: – And what is the truth, doc?

Doc: That you made some bad choices in your life, and unspeakable crimes,

which resulted in your insanity, and why you are here.

K: – The truth does not exist. It is a form of a lie which the majority accepts,

and it becomes right. There are no good or bad choices, every choice is the

right choice. As for insanity, I have always been called insane. Because I didn’t

want to accept your reality, your restrictions and limitations. Because I wanted

to look beyond that shallowness, beyond that system of yours. The infinite

possibilities of life.

Doc: But everything you did was wrong, unacceptable for the society.

K: – Every action has its own reaction. What was done, was previously

triggered by an even bigger action. So, I did what I had to do.

Doc: Do you regret it?

K: – Regret what? My life? Never. Everything I did, I did it by my own choice,

willingly. And I lived it fully.

Do you have regrets doc? About your life? About something that you’ve done?

Doc: No, I don’t think so.

Doc: So, Kristina, you consider your actions to be justified for a reason?

K: – As I said, I made my own choices. They were right for me.

So, doc, if you could go back in time, would you change something? Would

you make something differently in the past?

Doc: Maybe. Maybe I would’ve stopped you.

K: – Then you’d be in here, with me, as a roomie.

You see, the reactions have consequences. If you have seen what I have, if

you lived what I lived, then you’d understand. If only you wouldn’t be so

ignorant.

Doc: And what is it, that you have seen? What is it that you have lived?

K: – You want the copyrights? You want to become famous by unsolving the

greatest mystery of life, the deciphering of the brain, the conscious and

subconscious?

Doc: I just want to help you, cure you.

K: – Well, you see, that’s your problem. You can’t cure anyone who isn’t sick.

You can’t fix something that isn’t broken.

Doc: Then why are you here?

K: – Because of your system. Because I saw what was going on behind the

scene. How the puppet masters pulled the strings. And I cut mine off. But if

you want my life story, I will give it to you.

Doc: Why the change of heart?

K: – Not of heart, of mind, perhaps. A choice, which I want to do. But you have

to promise me one thing.

Doc: Sure, tell me.

K: – You have to publish my story exactly as I tell it, no psycho babbling. I

want my words, my reality, for the people to see, not twisted into your own.

Doc: I can do that.

K: – Let’s begin.

And so, warm hues casted over my then-shut eyes, the sun awoke once more; enthusiasm chirping about the oncoming day — a truth I had yet to accept. When you try to kill yourself, the dread in your stomach is comparative to a parasite — an additional set of dish and cutlery at the table for the unannounced guest, left untouched; connected to you by what could only be loosely considered an umbilical cord.

To feed the parasite was to open my eyes; to face another day — I’d wondered how many hours it would take to die of starvation; if that sort of following attempt would prove itself more successful.

Maybe, I just needed a cigarette.

Was this the part where I was meant to act like everything was normal; as though nothing had happened? I wouldn’t have wanted to worry anyone, after all — I wouldn’t have wanted to inconvenience anyone, after all. Thus ensued my regular morning, after a regular night, wherein I had not committed acts so detached as removing all counts of my present existence from the internet, nor wiped my phone of any contacts previously saved — and I couldn’t fathom the possibility of a stomachache from a handful of miscellaneous pills that I hadn’t taken in the quiet of the night previous; the medicinal cabinet whispering into my father’s bedpost.

Remnants swirled around as I’d fiddled with the plastic Nyquil bottle laying at my feet; disappointed that it hadn’t, at very least, gifted me with some wild sort of hallucinations. At most, the propylene bottle was meant to grow limbs; to engrave a headstone, dedicated especially for me — it would have been the first time I’d have ever felt special; “Look!” I’d have said, “They made room for me! They went through the effort of chiselling my name into stone!” When would I have ever felt more important?

In its place, all I’d had in my wake was a text message from… whom I can only assume was a friend.

“Does this skirt make me look fat? Be honest :/”

To be honest, I wish I’d have just died.

My presence is louder than most.

I am two times more opinionated than everyone.

I carry myself a few inches shorter but steps ahead

However, three times I’ve tripped.

There are four scars on my legs

A missed step, a runaway razor, a razor with purpose, and a drunken night.

Five shots and I was living

Alcohol now makes me vomit regardless.

Six pieces of my home live everywhere but where I am at

I miss them.

Seven times I have done something I regret

Only seven (regret is for losers.)

Once, when I was eight, my sister broke my arm

My dad took me to the hospital after his shift because my mother forgot.

Nine pills and I was out that one night.

It will take me many decades to learn to count correctly.

Innocent, pure, beautiful... The object of my obsession. An infernal presence dwells within me. Vexxed by the urge and it's source, I am overcome with insidious virility. The urge comes in excruciating, relentless waves... Verging on satiation. I fear it though it has elevated me to an alien world beyond good and evil. It tells me I am superior. I am convinced by a genius emotional intellect that I have transcended petty human affairs. Hypersensitive and empathic, bordering on psychic, yet cold and calculative, intuitive logic pierces the matter at hand, showing me I have what it takes to impose self-exile, because that's what I will need to do if I am going to unhinge my mind and release this titanic beast. I will marry this pursuit. A sacrificial ritual of human consumption, to take on the emotional fuel required for me to attain immortality.

She's out there somewhere... Waiting for me.

Hey. I know it's been a while since we last talked, but I really miss you.

I miss how helpless you were when I left, the desperation and helplessness in your eyes, the way you cried on the floor.

Sometimes, when I'm all alone, I still think of you by my side, as if you still cared sweety for me.

Don't think you can ever get over me. You were always the one who lucked out and landed me. You're nothing without me.

It's going to be Valentines' Day soon. This year flew by fast, didn't it? It would have been our second year together.

You're so pathetic. I can't believe you thought you could win me back. Why did I cheat on you? Who wouldn't? No one could hope to be loyal to someone so boring.

Do you remember the way I'd fall into your arms? The way my fingers laced into yours, the smell of my hair as we fell asleep?

It haunts you, doesn't it? You will never find someone like me, and if you do, I'll pop back into your life and twist your meek little heart. Bit by bit, I'll rip you apart again.

I know it might be too late to change things, but I really miss you and I'm sorry things didn't work out.

Want to come over tonight? We can do whatever you want.

I just need you to break up with the new girl you started dating... just come back to me.

Come back.

Did you really think you could move on? How dare you find someone else.

We were meant to be together. I love you. Do you still love me?

What do you want me to say?

That I can't make eye contact with myself in the mirror without starting to cry

That my therapist saw me twice before telling me goodbye, deciding for herself that I was okay

That my grandmother can't remember my name

That she asks to be shot every time that I see her

and that every time she says it

I get flashbacks to just a few months ago and a phone call

and all of the people I know that have come too close to that edge

only for some of them to fall

But I can't bring any of that up

Because even if she knew, she wouldn't remember

And at least she's still breathing

and I'm sorry

That I got defensive in the game we were playing

and I know everything you did was meant in good fun

and I'm sorry

That it went down the way it did

But it still hurt

and I'm trying not to cry and instead just politely say good night

and I'm sure the look in your eyes isn't meant to say go away

But that's how it feels

and I'm sorry

and talking about it is supposed to make me feel better

But all it does is remind of all of the things that I'm not saying

That I don't know how to say

Because how do you say to your parents just months after telling them that a second friend of yours is dead

That four more of them have tried, only they walked away

and that I can name more people I know who have been sexually assaulted than I have fingers to count on

and that the people that you think that I have to count on are just ghosts in my world

But I have to be fine

because these things aren't happening to me and everyone else has bigger fish to fry right now

Because the medication she's on is less anxiety and more depression

and she's two weeks away from what's going to be the rest of her life

and she's my grandma but she's his mom

and I'm not the one being asked to hold the gun

and I'm breathing

I'm fine

When I tried to hang myself, I told everyone that I did it once, and that the material I had used (I couldn’t find the belt I was going to use), slipped off the door knob, and that was why I was unsuccessful. That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. That same night, I laid awake, staring at my ceiling. It had been around three in the morning when I got up, turning to my night stand to turn on the small lamp. I fumbled through my clothes, and I found that belt I tried to find earlier. Creating two loops, I put one end on my door knob: pulling tight to make sure it would hold my weight. I got on my knees with my back to the door. Slipping the second loop over my head, I left the leather dig into my neck, tightening it before I leant forward. As I leaned, I thought of how silent and quick I would go. How my roommate wouldn’t stir from his sleep, or at least not before it was too late. I knew that I was going to be successful in my endeavors. That thought isn’t why I panicked and stopped when I began to see stars. Neither was the thought of my family missing me, or the people I loved hurting because of me. I sat there, weeping silently, belt still tight against my throat, with one thought in my mind: I would just have to start over again. Even if I did die, I firmly believe in reincarnation. There would be no sanctity in death. I felt no peace like I had when I was younger; when I had been swept into the currents of a river, pulled under. I had hoped it would have been like that: a peace washing over me, and a silent acceptance. I had been ready, even at such a young age. Looking back, it was like when I had reached up with one final effort, and grabbed a leg to pull myself up out of the depths. Even in death, there is no end. That’s the only thought that stopped me, and I still feel an overwhelming selfishness because of that. I cannot say that love saved me, and that will always haunt me.