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Studying the Void
by C.R.M. Nilsson

July 10th, 2009

It was that look that did it, really. That sad, pitying look that make me want to scream and claw my eyes out so I just could stop seeing it directed at me.

It has been directed at me disturbingly often, as of late.

I was in a state when I got home. Just tore out the clothes from closet. Didnít even look at what I was putting on. Probably something black, suggestive, if not downright pornographic. My therapist keeps telling me to throw those clothes out. I donít want to. Or maybe I do. But itís probably not the clothes I want to throw out, rather myself. I wish I could stop being me, if that makes any sense at all.

Donít remember how I got to the usual place, but I remember the lights. Those flashing lights, changing colour with every flash, and I always wonder if Iím going to pass out. Itís overwhelming. I love it. It makes me faint. The music cannot be heard, itís so loud that all you can is to feel it through the floor, feel it in your blood. Youíre a part of that desperately writhing mass and you pray and hope for salvation in a sinís nest.

His hair was platinum-blond. The eyes was ice-blue, almost scarily so. He had a great body and a great smile. I felt myself react to him, like carbon to oxygen when it turns into carbon-monoxide instead of carbon-dioxide. I was suffocating, but I wanted him. Grinding my hips into his, kissing him, wanting to die, wanting to live, wanting just to get him out of his fucking clothes.

I didnít care what his place looked like. I didnít care if we did it on a bed, on the floor, against a wall, in a public parkÖ I just wanted it done. My skirt Ė or was it pants? I canít remember for my life Ė around my ankles, him pounding inside so hard that my head collided with the headboard, seeing stars, squeezing my thighs so hard around him like I never wanted to let him go. But I felt nothing. It wasnít good. It wasnít anything. It just filled some void inside me, a void the therapist never had helped me heal.

Afterwards he fell asleep. I wanted to move closer to him, but couldnít. The inches of bare sheets between us felt like miles. I wanted to touch him. I felt cold. I couldnít touch him, because that would mean infecting him with my cold.

I clumsily got dressed, wishing I had been plastered out of my mind, and stumbled off into the night. Donít really know how I got home. Collapsed when I got inside of the flat door. I was choking on the air, suffocating, couldnít cry, couldnít scream, choking, choking, choking, chokingÖ until I passed out.

I woke lying on the floor, took a shower, trying to get the dirt off, writing in this journal to keep my therapist happy.

Iím going over to her later. I can already see her disappointed face.

I just wish something could fill up this void inside.

But I think Iím going to self-destruct before that happens.


Copyright C.R.M. Nilsson 2010

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