Fuck off.
I believe that experiences help shape a person’s growth and be it good or bad events that happen in your life, you learn from it and they force you to grow up and be a better person. But that belief may be wrong, because I also believe that fried chicken is the best thing life has to offer. Whatever I believe in does not matter. What matters, is that you take life with a pinch of salt. No, scratch that. Take a pillar of salt. Or at least enought to stay afloat when you reach the deep end of the pool. Because trust me, everybody will end up in the deep end of the pool at least once in their lifetime and it’s only then that you realise that the swimming lessons you went through as a child cannot save you and all you can do is trust your instinct and fight for survival.
1 This is my story, it is nothing so fanciful like a fairytale and not as important as an instruction manual, this story is of no consequence to anybody, and does not hold an influence over the anyone. You should not be reading this, but if you are, I’m guessing that you are bored and have nothing better to do. I may allow you to carry on, but only if you read the entire story. If you promise to stay and finish it, I will promise to let you read it. You may feel a strirring inside you, reading this, you may not. Things may make sense to you, they may not. The story may scare you, it may not. It may bore you, it may not. You may reach nirvana reading this, but chances are that you will not. It is not about you. This story is about me. I don’t care what you feel or what you don’t feel reading this. This is my story and I will write it however I want to write it.
2 My name is Andrea. You may call me by it, or Drea for short. Or anything you want to call me actually. I usually respond, unless I am dead, obviously. It is pretty obvious when somebody is dead is it not? I mean, especially when flesh is rotting and putrid smells are emitting. When lungs start to expand and make the body burp its last breath, when a skull fractures, and bone pierces into the brain, squishing it like somebody stepping on a baby rabbit, blood oozing from all holes. Red, fresh, iron-filled blood. When the bashing into the skull continues and the brain is smashed further into pieces of minced meat, when the eye sockets crack open and eyeballs are squeezed out of its shell. When nothing is recognisable anymore and the brutalised mind is reduced to nothing but splatters of blood and gooey disgusting organs. When there is no more pulse, no heartbeat.
Wouldn’t you say that it would be obvious? But what if it isn’t obvious? What if somebody is dead but not exhibiting any signs of death. What then? That’s impossible, you say. There is no such thing, you say. That only exists in storybooks and horror movies. What if I tell you that I am one of them. I am. My soul has been so tortured that it has decided to hibernate within the recesses of my mind, leaving my body naught but rotting flesh. No, I’m not dead as in literally dead, but I am dead inside. Really really dead. Would you call me and expect me to respond then?
Hi! Hey you there? Heyy Hey I know youÕ re there, reply me. How are you? Hahaha hey busy bee Are you free tmr? Hey babe
heyy :( Knockity Knock You there?
Hey Heyyy Busy? Hiii Hey free today? Knock Knock
Too busy to reply me babe? Heyy heyy Heyyyyyy Hey Free today? Haha Like in the evening
When will you be freeeee Hey Heyyy is this andrea? Why the cold shoulder Hey Harro Harro DonÕ t ignore me babe Babe, my place tomorrow afternoon? Haha I could takes Hey IÕm bo red lets do sth tonight Hey Babe my place tmr! Come on babe, I know you want daddyÕ s cock.
I dunno why but I’m like oanicking like I dont know why I dont know freaking out and i dont know why dont undestand Im freaking out i d happened. I’,m not thinking of any calm down and I dont know why. oh my god I dont know. I really don i just suddenly panicked and i dont dunno hey im like that i was fine lik i dunno i just freaked out for nothin was a shock or something I dont kn but i dont know and i am having a p happen i dunno what happen i don does this alway shappen i dont kno anymore i cannot i really cannot do die omg what the fuck is wrong wi i just cannot take it anymore i don i ont know help me please help m stand this anymore i feel like i canno breathe i cannot move i feel like shit ing out what is going on i dont kn dont know i cannot i really cannot d die omg what the fuck is wrong wit just cannot take it anymore i dont un know help me please help me i dont anymore i feel like i cannot breathe
riht now like i dunno what happened Im at home and in my room and im y I dont kno whats wrong with me I dont know why like Idont knoq what ything in particular but I just annot I dont know hwats wrong with me. nt know im not thinking of anything t mkownhwh like i dont know why i ke everything was fine and then i just ng i dunno im freaking out i dunno it now im feeling like i can breathe again panic attack. I cannot remember what nt understand wht is happeneing why ow i dont understand i cannot do this o this anymore i feel like im going to ith me i dont know i dont know like nt understand i think i need help but me i dont know what to do i cannot ot breathe i dont understand i cannot t im like freaking out why am i freaknow i dont know i dont understand i do this anymore i feel like im going to th me i dont know i dont know like i nderstand i think i need help but i ont t know what to do i cannot stand this e i dont understand i cannot breathe
3 There is science in isolation, there is beauty in loneliness. There is also pure unadulterated bliss, accompanied by long silences and emptiness. It is a fine line, being alone and being lonely. A fine line that I thread upon carefully. Imagine yourself walking through the woods, you come across a little stream, with baby deers touching their lips to the water’s edge, toungues reaching out to lap at the bank, while a proud fawn looks over on hill up ahead. You pass the deers, and wander further deeper into the forest. The wind is blowing in your face, tangling your hair and smarting your eyes. It is cold. It is a beautiful day, despite the coldness. Flowers bloom below your feet and the scent of peace in the air swarms around you. You are alone, in this deep forest. Yet, the sounds of crickets and animals within the woods accompany you, as you walk towards your destination. You don’t
know where you are walking to, but you walk. You move your feet, faster and faster, towards the sounds that intrigue you. You are excited about unearthing new sights and discoveries, you feel exhilarated from being in the midst of nature. You reach down to pluck a freshly bloomed flower, wanting to put it to your nose and immerse yourself in its clean, sweet smell. You reach down, and a thorn stabs itself in your flesh. You pull back, wondering how a magnificent little bloom could cause you pain. Marvelling at how if you had been more careful, you would not have gotten cut. You reach down again, only to find your arm paralysed. You cannot move it. You try with the other arm, but fire burns within and the pain is so immense it brings tears to your eyes. Your heart is pounding and you wonder what is happening to you. You realise that you have been poisoned. By the one thing that you’ve been attracted to, the one thing you wanted to love and
cherish. You kneel down and bring your face instead to the flower to get a whiff of it, believing that after going through so much, you should at least get what you came for before the poison spreads and leaves you unconscious. It smells like rotten cabbage. You laugh at yourself for having been tricked by beauty. You get up and leave the place, wanting to be as far away from the plant that has caused your demise. But you get lost. It is soon turning dark, the sounds that once brightened up your trek, turn ominous and you don’t now what is out there in the pitch black dense coverage. You try screaming for help, and then you remember you are alone. You ask yourself what your purpose was in visiting the woods and you don’t have an answer. You question why you would be so dumb as to leave civilisation and wander on your own. You question why you blocked out those who wanted to care for you and be there for you. You contemplate how things
would have been different if you had taken that friend’s warning in not touching anything, or the other friend’s advice about bringing a first aid kit. For the first time that day, you feel alone. You recall the good times you have had with the people you loved, and you feel even more alone. You are back at the river bank, and you look into the water only to see the slight reflection of the moon. It is too dark to see your own face, but you know you are crying. Your tears drip down your face, contaminating the water in the river, and you blame yourself for destroying all the wonderful things you could have had. You blame yourself for the fear, the curiosity, the anxiety, the stupidity, the loneliness. You blame yourself for deciding to be alone. And you blame the world for letting you be alone.
4 I get angry. Sometimes. Well, I guess everybody gets angry. But when I get angry, I get really angry. There’s only so much one can tiake before one decides to commit murder after all. I’ve thought about torture, murder, and exploitation. I haven’t done anything permanently unerasable, but I’ve broken a dick before. I inserted a metal hot pair of scissors into his urethra and cut him open from the inside. Oh, wait. I did not actually do that, did I? I apologise, that wasn’t me. It was Rebecca. She fantasizes about torturing them before she ends them. She boils people in their sleep and suffocates them in their shower. She is like a piece of rope, she coils around your neck, rendering you helpless and struggling before striking like a cobra. She has malicious thoughts and she seeks to convince others about them. Rebecca is not a person.
She’s a personality.
I feel sad when I think about the people struggling out there in the world, be it physically or mentally. It would most probably be unfair to do, but I classify myself under that section of people- the part of society that nobody wants to be a part of willingly. I have this strange tingling of uncertainty, I feel disabled. I consider my disorder as a disability so to speak. A disorder that cannot and will never be cured. It saddens me to think about how many people out there in the world are like me and feel the same way. But yet I find familiarity and consolation in not being the only one who feels this way. I suffer from claustrophobia of the mind. (If such a thing exists) I fear the complete and coexisting thoughts of a gathered amount of people, I fear their body language and I fear their interference in the frequencies around me. It’s not just about being in a crowded place that
daunts me. It’s being in a place that I’m unable to foresee any unexpected events or occurrences that triggers my anxiety. Blackouts are another problem. No, I’m not talking about dark places or the fear of them, I’m talking about my mental incapacity to store memories or several events in the last eighteen years of my existence. No, they are not ordinary short term memory losses or simple minded forgetfulness. These blackouts are seizure like epilepsy frequencies that may happen to me anywhere, anytime, and anyway. This is the result of having multiple personalities. Giselle is a quiet girl who lives her life according to rules and regulations, reserved and loyal, she does not take much risks and in fact stays as grounded as any land animal who cannot swim or climb trees. She is, in one word, average. She does not wear flashy clothes or speak in a wide vocabulary. She is the least
ostentatious person I know, both in body and mind. She is one that fits and conforms to the expectations of society unwaveringly and often if not, always. Rebecca is a rebel. She hates rules and always finds all sorts of means and ways to break them, getting scot free. She is the exact polar opposite of Giselle, in both attitude and mindset where she is sexually promiscuous and more than slightly mischievous. Beck always gets into trouble, and in fact creates trouble for herself. She is always on a hunt for a new way to create mayham in this otherwise peaceful place. She has a theory that people deserve what they deserve and nothing happens when nothing happens, and thus, as such, something has to happen for something to happen. This is the motto in which she lives by, making things happen to people she feel deserves them. She can be aggressive and angry. Unlike Giselle,
Beck is not one to be trifled with. And then there’s me. Plain old me. I am depressed half the time and a maniac half the other. I survive on cigarettes and coffee, This situation provides me with the luxury of generating false memories, of such that I induced upon myself while trying to retrieve those which I lost. I understand this is a hard concept to grasp, but look at it this way. Imagine you’re a glass cup. You were filled with water and liquids and soft drinks and maybe the occasional solids. Stacked amongst other cups in the cupboard and being emptied every other day. Would you remember all that you have been filled with? Without any sense of sight, touch, smell or taste, would you remember what liquid was poured into you and who drank from you? Chances are, you will not. You can argue that a glass cup is an inanimate object and thus not the perfect
metaphor for this situation. But how about if you exchange the idea of a glass cup with your hands or your skin. Your skin touches many items a day, your hand holds on to different textures all the time. If you fall down and scar yourself, you would indeed remember that event. But would you remember the people around you, the smell of the place you fell, the texture of the floor in which you scraped yourself on, or the sight of rich blood oozing from the surface of your skin? It is not possible to have an exact recollection of the event and as such, you invent things. Or rather, your subconscious links two and two together to invent that event in which you fell down. Your mind will tell you the floor was rough because that was why you have a scrape. Your mind will tell you that you bled and red is the color of blood. It will tell you that you felt pain. But try remembering the pain, during the exact moment to hurt yourself, let’s say, one month ago for
example. All you would be able to conjure is that it hurt. But you would be unable to exactly measure or remember the intensity of that pain. That is where this metaphor mirrors that of my existent yet unrecovered memory. I know it happened. I have the scars. But I am unable to feel the pain or get access to what actually happened during that pain I felt.This happens regularly, and with habit, I managed to ignore that sensation of loss during and after such an event, focusing on the present. But just imagine for a moment how detrimental it would be for one to experience some sort of pleasure never knowing the full extent of that pleasure and not being able to trace back your steps and indulge in that experience once again, just because your mind is unable to operate, like normal minds can. It is difficult, living in this body with three separate minds day in and out and harder when I have datelines to meet or certain expectations to
fulfill. And yet, this is me. I cannot expect to recover and I do not expect pity. I just feel sad when I know deep down in me that I am not the only one going through this, and that I wish I could help myself and those out there facing something similar.
5 I struggle, with the abuse, the nonstop emotional flatuence, the pain, the suffering, the gut wrenching horrors of my own mind everyday. From the moment I open my eyes, till the time I sleep, I struggle. In sleep, I see his face. I hear his voice. I feel his touch. I’ve woken up spilling the contents of my stomach before, cold sweat beading on my forehead. I’ve woken up on the floor before, blood in my nails from scratching myself, my face stained with tears and mucus. I’ve screamed myself awake before, and kept screaming, until my throat was so sore, my screams became silent. My face, distorted, contorted, in grisly expressions as no sound escapes from my lips, the only sound the echo of my fearful beating heart, pounding away like the bell, signalling the end of school. I struggle. I struggle the most when I am just but a void.
Emotions swirl within me, churning the violent seas, like a kaleidescope of black, hot, hatred.
I hate talking about this. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth afterwards.
I hate revisiting this. We were arguing in the kitchen, when I pulled out a scissors and tried to stab him. I punched him over and over agin but the punches seemed to be bearing no weight nor effect on him. I was crying, shouting at him. I told him that he was a useless father and worthless. That he disgusts me and that I hate him for what he has done to me. He smirks and reaches for me. I dodge and try to run. I cannot seem to run fast enough. I enter a lift, and press all the floors. Thinking that I may be able to get out of this alive. He wrenches the door open before the lift starts travelling and spreads open my knees. He is about to do it when we are suddenly in a shopping mall. I scream for help at the nearby security guard, but he smiles and waves. He looks on with interest and signals for my father to continue. The struggling and squirming turns him on. He unbuckles his jeans and
began. I weep silenty as strength leaves my body and float away to my safe place. My safe place is a meadow, of sunflowers and butterflies. Huge butterflies flutter all around and the bright yellow sunflowers mirror each other, dew collecting and glittering in the heat. He finishes and I am still screaming. He puts me back neatly and tucks in my shirt. “Be a good girl�, He says.
6 I’m masturbating to you right now. I remember the feel of your hands as you choked me. Your caresses all over my body and how you spread me apart for you to enjoy the view. I remember the anticipation waiting for you to come back into the room, as I sat naked on the edge of the bed. I remember you ordering me not to move and the stinging slap across my face as I wiggled my toes, before you dripped ice over my nipples, chest and pussy. I remember as you fucked me and I begged for you to go harder Daddy. I remember quivering under the sound of your voice as we kissed and you asked if I wanted more. Oh God, I do. I want so much more. I remember how we played while cuddling and the many kisses we shared. I remember you pumping your cock my ass until all I could do was moan and muffle my screams into your pillow. I remember when you first entered my ass and when
you told me that you did not care if it would hurt me or not because I was your little slut, your fucktoy, your whore of a cunt, and nothing more. I remember watching you stroke your thick shaft and thinking to myself how much I wanted to pleasure you, Daddy. I remember showering with you as you lathered and rinsed my battered and bruised body, making sure I was clean even under my pits and when you dressed me later on in diapers and a romper, you tucked in the diapers so neatly. I remember how you taste and how you smell, like seasalt. I remember how intense and controlled you were, your features a mask of ease and relaxation, your eyes betraying your passion and hunger, desire palpitating in the air. I remember when you first entered me without a condom and I felt you flesh to flesh, skin to skin. I was shocked at your sudden entrance, but quickle overwhelmed by the need for you to use me and drive deeper into me. I
remember being lost in sensations as you fisted my ass and fucked my cunt, until I was a quivering mess unable to stand straight without shaking. I remember the blood pooling from my ass, staining your bed because you went too rough. I remember the pain in my pussy as I was unable to urinate without discomfort for the week after. I remember calling you Daddy and you calling me your Babygirl. I remember loving that moment I felt like home, warm, used, abused and contented in your embrace. I want you Daddy, i want all of you. From your kind words to gentlemanly gestures, to your curses and slaps across my face. From your roughned voice and straining erection to the hundreds of marks you left on my body with your belt. From your intense eyes on my skin as you burned my flesh and used me as an ash tray. I want you to use me for your own pleasure Daddy. I want
you to use me to satisfy yourself. The greatest pleasure I receive is knowing that you used me the way you needed to and that you are pleased with your cunt. Daddy I want you to fill all my holes, Daddy please. I need you. I want to worship your cock, balls and ass, until you are hard and bursting to ram it into my pussy. Daddy please, let your cunt please you. I want your cum, all over my face, my breasts, in my mouth and on my body. I want you to claim me as your Babygirl and mark me with your cum. Mark me and clean me up after and tell me that I’m your Babygirl and that you are pleased with me. Daddy, I’ll be a good girl and masturbate for you. I’ll be your good little cumslut and your fuckmeat. I’ll be yours and touch myself for you and only you Daddy. I love you Daddy.
7 I believe I’m pretty rational most of the time. It’s only when I’m irrational that I do the craziest things. Well, not irrational in the sense that it’s in a fit of rage, I mean it as in more of a constant state of mind. Where my emotions have reduced itself to only three categories - depression, acceptance and resignment, and fear. I hate him. Oh, I do. I hate him so much that I’ve started hating myself for being unable to let go of the hate. I know it does not make any sense, but let me explain. I was involved with a pair of twins a couple years back. Twins, you ask. Yes, twins. I know you are intrigued. I will divulge more. These were identical twins. Of course I knew which one was which, I spent a lot of time with the brothers, both individually and together. We began developing feelings for each other, all three of us. And because the brothers shared
one phone, they liked to prank me on who I was texting. All three of us exchanged love notes and engaged in a little bit on sexting on that phone. It was only after I decided that I could not keep up with twins that things went downhill. So naturally, since they were exactly the same, I went for the older brother. Big mistake. Turns out, they were not the same after all. Big brother twin was malicious. He was a virgin and he had an acquired taste when it came to doing the dirty. He went to pray every friday, and would pray about 3-4 times a day asking for forgivenes for this particular acquired taste of his. And yet, God never told him to stop, or most probably he just never listened. But this is not about him or his weird fetishes, this is about me. Me, being the stupid, irrational me, decided to take pity on big brother twin and allow him to take advantage of me when I was at my lowest point in my depression. At that point I felt weak, i was continously
disorientated, I was slow to react to pain, and utterly hopelessly devoid of a soul. He abused me, he tore my lips, while forcing me to go down on him. I had to go around school and work telling people that i tore my lips when I yawned. He left bruises the size of tennis balls on me, I cannot remember how he did it, but I remember why. It was because I wanted to hold his hand. It was after one of his screwed up blowjobs and he did not let me wipe my face off as usual. He said that I was dirty and that his semen was unholy on my skin. He said that I would have to bathe in mud to cleanse myself before he would hold my hand or touch me again. Later that night, he made me give him another blowjob, and when I refused, I recieved my bruise. I felt resigned, and accepted my fate. He had a disgusting penis. It was one of those fat ones that tapers towards the top like an upside down ice cream cone, and his pee hole was inside out, like a vagina. I gag
now, thinking of it as I am writing. He would force my head down on him and choke me, making sure I swallowed his cum and choked so it would come out my nose. He liked watching me scramble around for something to wipe myself with after, and he liked me going home dirty. He said that it reflected who I truly was. That I was as dirty inside as I was outside. I knew only fear then. Never did I refuse another sexual encounter with him after that, and there were many encounters.
Then came the friend. The friend noticed that I was in danger, and I confided in him what I was doing to myself, and what I was letting be done to me. The friend told me to kick big brother twin to the curb and tell younger brother twin about everything big brother twin did to me. The friend said that it would save me. He said that I needed to be saved. That I needed help. Help that he would offer. I believed him. Help! At last. Obviously I did as the friend said. I was at my wits end. I could not just leave. I was afraid. I was afraid of getting beaten. But the friend said that he would back me up and I would never get hurt ever again.
I believed him.
I left big brother twin and went to find the friend to tell him the great news. The friend did not react. He just kept quiet and listened. He said that he was happy for me. I believed him. The friend wanted to go for dinner, and asked me along since “I had no friends now”, his words, not mine. I agreed, since “I had no friends.” He wanted to eat under the tree instead of the food place. I agreed. He killed a snake. I helped him. We laughed about it and he told me that he thought I was pretty. I believed him.
He brought me to the back of a shopping mall and told me that I must have been great in giving a blowjob if big brother twin wanted so many of them so often. I believed him. And for the first time started to feel that I was not useless after all, even if that was my singular usefulness. The friend then unzipped his pants and told me to suck on him. He said he wanted to try me. He said that he would hurt me if I did not do as he said. He said that I was alone without him, and that I had nobody else. He said that I had no friends, and the only way I could get friends was to do as he said. I believed him.
I dunno why but I’m like oanicking r like I dont know why I dont know I freaking out and i dont know why dont undestand Im freaking out i do happened. I’,m not thinking of any calm down and I dont know why. I oh my god I dont know. I really don i just suddenly panicked and i dont dunno hey im like that i was fine like i dunno i just freaked out for nothing was a shock or something I dont kno but i dont know and i am having a pa happen i dunno what happen i dont does this alway shappen i dont know anymore i cannot i really cannot do die omg what the fuck is wrong wit i just cannot take it anymore i dont i ont know help me please help me stand this anymore i feel like i canno breathe i cannot move i feel like shit ing out what is going on i dont kno dont know i cannot i really cannot do die omg what the fuck is wrong with just cannot take it anymore i dont un know help me please help me i dont anymore i feel like i cannot breathe
riht now like i dunno what happened Im at home and in my room and im I dont kno whats wrong with me I ont know why like Idont knoq what ything in particular but I just annot I dont know hwats wrong with me. nt know im not thinking of anything mkownhwh like i dont know why i e everything was fine and then i just ng i dunno im freaking out i dunno it ow im feeling like i can breathe again anic attack. I cannot remember what t understand wht is happeneing why w i dont understand i cannot do this o this anymore i feel like im going to th me i dont know i dont know like t understand i think i need help but e i dont know what to do i cannot ot breathe i dont understand i cannot im like freaking out why am i freakow i dont know i dont understand i o this anymore i feel like im going to h me i dont know i dont know like i nderstand i think i need help but i ont know what to do i cannot stand this i dont understand i cannot breathe