Off The Ledge

I remember this one time I was sitting up at my rooftop with my legs hanging off the ledge and a joint in my mouth. It really was peaceful, that trip. The air was breezy and cool and the high complimented it well. But it was at that moment when my mind fell into deep contemplation. What if I just jumped off the ledge? I had nothing to lose. I was a 17 year old kid, a disappointment to my family for liking to enjoy a good trip and not giving a fuck about what my parents said to me. It seems childish to me now this incident but there was a time when I hated myself so much that I actually wanted to just let it all go. To become free from all my bonds and just pass into nothingness. It all seems childish to me now but there was a time I thought suicide would save my life rather than breaking it. It was after my grandfather had passed, after I’d lost an immediate family member that I realized that my problems weren’t problems at all. That my life was pretty precious to not just me but to all my family. Suicide seemed like an angel back then. But life’s taught me better. And I can finally get off that ledge without ever wanting to think about flinging myself off it. I’ve found my will to live.

The Tortured Artist.

Out of all the mentality distorted and beautifully twisted minds that exist in this planet we so affectionately call the Earth, there lived a speck in this pool of immensely talented yet insanely distorted human beings, so to speak.
This speck didn’t have a name. This speck had an interesting past, though. You see, people always have this premonition that an artist’s past is so dark, it would put Edgar Allan Poe to shame. Their state of mind so fragile, it might shatter at the slightest hint of negative criticism. Their thought processes so distorted, a normal man would shriek out of sheer and utter disbelief. But these premonitions were true and more for this particular person.
She’d lost her parents at an early age, to something the papers called “an unfortunate car accident.” She grew up amongst strangers, physical and mental abuse being the only true constants throughout her childhood, the taste of tears more familiar to her than that of water.
When she went to school, her teachers labeled her as that awkward kid who’s never found without her sketch pad. People made fun of her physical appearance, not knowing that she had to fend for herself in her foster house, not knowing that the only way she ever got food was if she stole from the refrigerator, not knowing that the scars that she tried to hide were either from the several beatings she received from her foster parents or from the several other attempts she made at taking her own life.
When she first fell in love, she hadn’t found a feeling more elating and horrific at the same time. The guy was some senior whose name she doesn’t recall now, but what she will always remember is his voice. That soft voice which would whisper words of affection in her ears, the very same voice which spit words of malice at her after he’d grown bored of her. She remembered how lovely his smile was, the very same, crooked smile he had stuck on his face when he hit her for not obeying him. She couldn’t live with him. But she couldn’t possibly exist without him. And when he left, that was the moment she really grew up. She grew to hate the feeling of being in love.
So she escaped to her reality, spending hours mindlessly doodling on her sketchpad. This was a place where no one could intrude. This was her solitude. Her world, where she was the master of what she created and not the malicious Fates which seemed to like playing around with hers. She would showcase her art, post pictures on Instagram, garnering critical appraisal from her peers.
But all the appraisal could never overshadow the horrors of what she had faced. Her suicidal tendencies made her drown in Hennesey and fly off Cali, getting lifted more than she was aware of her surroundings. Being sober made her feel nauseous. Intoxication became her newfound love, it became her reality. And in this alternate reality, the old one was forgotten. Her art had been slaughtered, butchered by the love of poison in her liver. The people she could call friends had left her for reasons her buzzing brain couldn’t fathom. In her loneliness, her kitchen knife became her best friend. And one fateful night, it wrapped itself lovingly around her wrists and dug deep, never to let go- it became a part of her. And as she drowned out from the alcohol so did her screams to the loud music that was blaring from the speakers on the nearby streets. She’d finally lost consciousness once and for all, and all that she could remember were the first couple of lines of that very same song, playing on rewind in her twisted brain.

“Don’t you open up that window,
Don’t you let out that antitode…”