Self-Torture Is Your Favorite Sport | Theland E. Thomas

It’s almost 3 am, and you stare into the pitch darkness, eyelids heavy, but mind racing. It’s funny how your eyes play tricks on you in the dark. The longer you stare, the blacker it becomes. It starts from the edges and creeps into the middle until the entire room is five shades darker. Then, the edges grow darker again, blackness compounding upon blackness, darker until the sunrise.

You've been tossing and turning all night, trying to find comfort in the warmth of the sheets. Now, you roll from your side onto your back and stare up at the vacant ceiling. The darkness is malicious, and you’re afraid. It glares back at you, peering into you, or maybe just reflecting you. You shut your eyes, but the scenery is the same. And you can't escape these toxic thoughts.

Remember a few years ago when you met your best friend? It was by chance, which is pretty much how you meet all your favorite people. At first you were forced to spend time with each other, then you wanted to. You spent long afternoons and evenings sharing your passions, your secrets, your fears. You might know her better than anyone else. She definitely knows you.

Remember parking your car on that hill and talking until the sun came up? Looking back, that's probably when you started to fall for her. When you finally shared the part of yourself you hated the most, and she looked into your eyes and told you how special you were.

But fool, you couldn’t say the same to her. You tried, but your tongue twisted, and your mouth dried, and your words caught, so you just looked away and hoped she could somehow pick up what you were trying to say non-verbally.

You realized that you wanted to spend every second with her. Your days didn’t seem complete if she wasn’t involved. You found yourself volunteering to help her with things you hated, but they didn’t seem so bad with her by your side. You would spend all day and night laughing with her.

Remember when she shared with you that she couldn’t really handle romantic affection, and your blood ran cold, but you laughed and said, “Me neither, good thing we’re just friends, right?” And then you thought, damn, why did I just say that, and she was looking at you, but when you saw, she looked away.

Remember when she complained that she couldn’t find anyone who she really connected with, and you came that close to confessing your love to her, and you said her name so heavily, she snapped out of whatever she was thinking about and stared at you with wide, expectant eyes, but you just looked away and told her she’d find that special someone someday?

Remember all those times you laid awake in bed fantasizing about finally saying what had been on your mind for the longest time? It was real romantic in your head. In your fantasy, your fear dissolved, and you just dropped the bomb like, “I think I’m in love with you.” No, more nonchalant, like, “Hey, I love you, you know?” Actually, maybe you shouldn’t be so intense and you'd go with a, “Hey, I really like you.” And she would be like, “Like, like like me?” And you would be like - no wait, what is this, middle school? You would actually just say, “Hey, do you want to go on a real date with me sometime?” And you smiled when you thought of this one because you knew you wouldn’t be so suave in real life. And in your fantasy, she wouldn’t reject you. (And you thought what if she doesn’t reject me for fear of being the cause of what tips me over the edge but she doesn’t really want to go out with me, she just doesn't want to hurt my feelings? I would never want anyone to think that. [And then you thought how do you even think up these things?]). In your fantasy, she said something like, “Really?” And you said, “Yeah, I really like you.”

And then the fantasy you in your mind’s eye thought, what is this middle school, and said, “Actually, I think I’m in love with you.” Maybe she replied here. Maybe she said, “Wow, I love you too.” Maybe she said, “Well, that took long enough.” And maybe she didn’t say anything and you said,

“I’m sorry, but I can’t hold this in any longer. I love you because you’re such an amazing person. You see the world in a different way. You’re always ready for the next adventure, always looking toward the future. And you see the good in everyone. You saw the good in me when I couldn't see anything but darkness. I know you said you couldn’t really handle when guys are really in love with you, but maybe we can’t resist because you’re so radiant and we’re like moths flying in the dark without you.”

And, in the dark, you smiled so hard your face hurt. Could you get any cheesier? And then you laughed out loud because that’s how you actually felt.

(And in the back of your mind you were mad at yourself for allowing yourself to feel this way because you tried so hard not to develop these emotions because they always, always, always end in heartbreak. [And in the back of the back of your mind you remembered that by the time couples break up, they despise the very things they once loved about each other.])

Remember when you got up everyday for the next few months and still said nothing to her? And you watched with a gnawing feeling in your heart as she started to grow bored of you. And all of a sudden, she didn’t really want to hang out with you anymore. And you didn’t talk. And you missed her so bad. And you were desperate to have her back, and one day you finally asked her on that date, but it wasn’t anything like how you imagined you would say it. It was rushed, and you stumbled over your words, and she just looked really sad, and she said your name softly and said, “I really care about you, but I don’t like you like that.”

And you were kind of tearing up a little bit, but you didn’t want her to see even though you knew she knew, so you just looked away and said, “Oh, yeah, that’s fine.” And she reached out and touched your hand and asked, “Are you okay?” And even though you felt like your insides were being vacuumed into a void, and you were barely containing your tears, and the pain was plastered all over your face, you said, “Yeah, I’m fine.” You’d just ruined it. You’d ruined everything. But you still didn’t want to lose her, so you asked, “We can still be friends, right?” And she forced a smile and said, “Of course.” And then she let go of your hand and walked away.

Remember when you had to stand with your back to the wall while waiting for the train because you couldn’t escape the fantasy of jumping in front of the tracks and your body twisting and flailing between the car and the cement and your blood spraying and finally releasing years of pent-up anguish, but then you couldn’t do that because she would think it was her fault when really it was always all your fault, and you didn’t really want to die anyway, you just wanted the constant, dull, aching, pain to end?

Remember when thought you were over it, but then you saw her with her new boyfriend, and he was tall, dark, handsome, and strong - all the things you could never be - and you were so jealous, but you really just wanted her to be happy even if it was without you because you still loved her and you probably always would? You knew this would happen, but you couldn’t help yourself. Self-torture is your favorite sport.

Remember when you hung out with your friends, including her and her boyfriend, and you realized he’s actually a really cool dude, and he’s perfect for her and you made friends with him and even gave him relationship advice all the while stifling an enormous sadness?

Remember when you tried to drown your depression, and it worked for a little while, but then you realized that you could still feel the pain no matter how drunk you got, so you went to a club to dance it out, but you couldn't get out of your own head, and your feet were moving, but you were sinking in quicksand, and you somehow ended up dancing right next to her and her boyfriend (what are the odds?), and at least your usual suicide fantasy had morphed from jumping off a bridge to blowing out your brains right there and getting your guts all over his perfect outfit?

Remember when you asked her if she ever felt the same way about you, and her face fell, and she teared up a little bit and said, “Yes. But I didn’t think you did.”

You clench your teeth, open your eyes and turn to the other side. You curl up in a ball and hug yourself, but you can’t keep the tears in. Your nose stuffs, and the tears fall sideways over your face and soak into the pillow. And you gaze outside looking for a glimmer of light, but it’s still pitch black and the sun won’t rise for hours.

The Past Does Not Exist | Theland E. Thomas

We walked. We were two, connected by long ties of friendship like old ropes scraping the sea floor, decaying over time. After all this time, years apart, we’d found ourselves together again in the same old town we swore we’d escape from. We walked in a silence made more oppressive by the absence of life. No birds chirped from the dormant trees, no children played in the vacant streets. We only heard our feet scraping and our nostrils breathing the stale air.

Before us, rows of identical track houses perfectly plotted in numbers, previously manicured lawns in disrepair, dry weeds taking over, one bony tree in every yard. So different was the place I remembered. It seemed like we’d been walking for miles, but everything looked the same. I remembered evenings with kids playing in the street, playful shrieks and giddy laughs, parents chatting under the shade of rustling leaves, music pouring out of open garages. This neighborhood was a cold imitation of the one I knew. I stopped and turned in front of a driveway, and my friend came up behind me.

“I think this is it.”

Two story house, dead tree on the left, snaking weeds coming up from concrete cracks, faded, flaking paint, broken wind chime, smashed window, unhinged screen door banging with every slight breeze. I walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. Listening for movement inside, I rang again. Then I pulled back the screen door and knocked.

“Whatcha looking for?” A voice called behind me. I turned to see a woman dressed in an old bathrobe at the edge of the sidewalk across the street.

“My parents,” I said. “They live here.”

“Oh, they’re gone,” she said.

Slowly, I came to the sidewalk and stared over the crumbling asphalt. “Gone?” I asked. “Gone where?”

“They’re dead,” she said plainly, harshly.

My mouth dried as my eyes found the ground. I started across the street, but the woman took a step back, so I stood there. “How long?” I asked.

“Few years ago. Frankly, I didn’t know they had a kid.” She looked me up and down, scorn dripping from her scowl. Before she turned away, she said, “Obviously they didn’t have a good one.”

My friend met me in the street and put his hand on his shoulder. I felt it, but he felt far away. He said, “Come on, bud. There’s nothing for us here.”

I looked at him through watery eyes, hot tears and pressure distorting my mind as I nodded and we took off down the sidewalk.

After a dozen of long blocks, there was not a soul in sight. Our wandering led us to an overgrown park. We walked through it in silence. Vines twisted along the playground. I remembered blissful hours swinging there. I remembered birthday parties on the benches. I remembered hanging out in the grass after school with friends. I took my first love here. We carved our names in a tree, and I looked her in her hazel eyes and told her this would never end. Now, I traced that scar with my fingers. Half of the tree was dead now, and the other half would soon follow.

I spun around. “Hey remember when we--”

My friend stood at the edge of the park. I went over to him. He said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just…”

“I mean, we should leave this town. There’s nothing left for us.” His eyes were hard and his mouth tightened in a small line.

“Yeah. There’s just one more thing.”

We left the park behind, but the memories clung on for miles as the sun sunk behind the hills and the night crept from the other side. A dull full moon hung in the sky, casting the world a pale grey with ghostly shadows stretching from every building and blade of grass.

My friend asked, “What are we still doing here? Haven’t you found what you were looking for yet?”

I didn’t respond. The answer was obvious, so we continued walking our footsteps in unison. He fell slightly behind me as we passed by darkened street lamps and empty houses. There was not a light on, not a car passing, no signs of life besides our own.

After a while, I stopped at another house. “This is it.” I turned to my friend, but he wasn’t with me anymore. I looked left and right and turned around, but he was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone away without saying anything, but worse yet, I didn’t know when he left.

Sighing, I turned back to the house. It looked like all the others. In a state of disrepair, but not quite falling apart yet. I walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. There, in the dark, I stood. Lifting a finger, I nearly tapped the doorbell, but decided not to ring again. Just when I was thinking of turning around and leaving, the door opened to a old man and woman. They looked like they’d aged together, wrinkles changing them both until they had identical faces.

“Why, hello, young man,” the father said. “How can I help you?”

“Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for your daughter actually.”

The man took a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. He smiled, “Oh, I think I remember you, son. Come on in.”

I followed him into the house. No lights were on, so I stumbled through the dark, following their faint outlines. He and his wife offered me a seat at the kitchen table where the moonlight poured in. Smiling inexplicably, the man stared intently at me. The old woman brought us water and sat next to him. Grey light illuminated half of their faces, leaving the other side obscured in shadow.

“It’s kinda dark in here,” I commented.

“You think so?” the old man said, making no effort to move.

His wife said, “It’s been so long since we’ve had any visitors.”

I gazed toward the stairs. “Is she home?”

“Hope?” The old man laughed. “No, no. She hasn’t been here for years. I wish she’d visit every once in awhile though.”

The old woman chimed in. “It’s just been so lonely here.”

I asked, “Well, where is she?”

“Who knows,” the man said. “She went to Miami, then to Toronto. Last we heard, she was in Seattle.” He leaned in, almost whispering, “She’s very successful you know.”

“Well, I’m looking for her, and I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.” I stood and headed down the dark hallway, and they followed me. When I came to the door, the old man opened it, but the old woman grabbed my hand looked me in the eye.

She said, “I know you two really loved each other, but…” she hesitated. “Don’t go looking for things you don’t really want to find.”

I stumbled back out to the street. Clouds covered the moon, blanketing the world in a cold pitch black, and a chilling breeze pushed me along. I walked endlessly through the night, passing row upon row of identical houses, rooftops like shadowy ghostly steeples for a dead church bleeding into the flat sky.

Finally, the first hint of sunlight appeared on the horizon, and a grey haze spilled across the sky. Up ahead, I saw a shadow I recognized. It was my first love, standing, waiting for me. I quickened my pace, but as I got closer, she danced away so she was always the same distance from me. She called my name, and I whispered hers as she led me out of the neighborhood and into a cool valley. I followed her shadow, trying to catch a glimpse of her face, to see a hint of her smile or her hazel eyes.

The pink and orange rays of the sun streamed before her, keeping her in silhouettes as she walked over a hill. There she stopped, and I could only see the shadow of her head and shoulders as I approached. I walked up the hill, joy making my steps weightless. I was ready to embrace her and watch the sunrise with her.

She didn’t move a muscle as I approached. And as I came closer, I realized what I thought were her head and shoulders must be something else. The dimensions distorted with every step, her shadow shrinking down. She wasn’t standing just on the other side of the hill’s peak. She wasn’t standing at all. The figure I’d been following was not my first love.

It was a tree stump.

I fell to my knees before it. I knew what was etched into the bark, but I didn’t want to look. Our initials scrawled in big, bold letters in a heart-shaped frame. Past the stump was a field of lilies, stretching as far as the eye could see, painted pink and orange by the sun's first warm rays.