Category Linkin Park
Breaking The Habit.
Breaking The Habit
Like opening the wound...
Linked to life. Linked to who we are. Linked to our interpretation of who we are. I like to think of memories as distorted illusions. Who knows if it's real? Who knows if all those years of internal suffering has just been in my head? That maybe I'm normal. Wait, let me rephrase that, maybe I'm society's definition of normal. Society can be tough on you, that little bitch. Just when you think you're the king of the world, society will destroy you. It'll hurt you in every way possible, toy with your every emotion, laugh in your face as soon as you find one positive aspect in this hell-hole you live in.
It'll slowly eat you alive. Take away your innocence. Just because you're not "normal."
I suppose it must be enjoyable for them - those who "fit in" into their own respective social groups. Those people who they seem to call Friends. Tell me, what's the true reason behind a "friendship" when all that happens is unexplainable betrayal and suffering? I had friends. Real friends, at that one. I never understood why they associated with me, the Loser. The problematic person of lower class. One day, I gathered up the courage to ask them about my worries during our lunch break and they seem to think it's because I'm a nice person, but I've been let down too many times to know that that's far from the truth.
The memories I have stored in my head are purely negative. I cannot summon up one that has been a positive influence in my life - not my birthday; my fifth grade play; my guitar recital; nothing. I try every hour of every day, bring up as much occasions as there are stars in the sky, but I find none. The memories haunt me, drown me, consume me. Fill up that empty, dark space inside my heart caused by my neglected childhood with images of sorrow, betrayal, aggression and agonizing pain. It's sad, really. My life was happy once. I used to find excitement and joy in everything I encountered, and with a keen, kind heart at that.
Or was that just an illusion? Like the rest of my sour life.
That doesn't matter. I'm suffocating. I fight them everyday, pushing them down into where, I do not know. But I'm suffocating, I can't breathe. Then, when I finally make the fatal mistake of allowing one mere memory seep deep into my psychotic mind, the others escape from their imprisonment, swallowing me whole.
Anyways, I have no time for that. I need to go to school.
I'm picking me apart again...
"G'bye, Charlie boy! I love you," my stepfather exclaims as I get out of his old Jeep as fast as I could. Love me? Ha, I'm sure you do.
"Bye Paul," I respond blankly. I don't call him "dad" or "father" or anything that'll even remotely show any kind of affection for him. I don't like him - hell, I've never liked him - but did my mother care about what I thought of her remarrying after my biological dad left us? Did she bother to at least sit me down and gently reveal that her and this poor excuse for a man were engaged? Of course not. I'm just Chester Charles Bennington, but everyone calls me Charlie. Who cares what I think? My name is Chester, for Christ's sake. My parents obviously didn't bother enough to give me a decent name. "Oh, and don't call me Charlie boy. You know I hate that."
"Do you really?" Paul smirked as he shot his balding head out of the cracked driver-side window, "I hadn't noticed. Is there anything else you would like to be called, oh great Chazzy?"
I roll my eyes and, out of instinct, turned my head abruptly to the right. In the distance, passed the community trees, there was a figure. Yup, just as I thought, Mike Shinoda. Cool kid, captain of the football team, luxurious hair, sea-deep brown orbs, girls screaming after him.
Mike was in the middle of a workout session with a few of his other friends. Yes, outside the gates of our school. I could almost feel him scanning the overcrowded area, searching for me like a lioness hunting for her prey. I shudder. Mike was one of the most brutal bully's in school. His father and mother were murdered some time ago and Mike was falsely accused. Since then, he torments every innocent passing bystander; kittens; puppies; family members; close friends; anyone. I can't say I blame him - as I mentioned, he was falsely accused. He's been proven innocent, but not everybody knows that. The story was indeed newsworthy and released very detailed articles about the event, but once Mike was proven not to be guilty, they didn't care. If I recall correctly, instead of having huge, bold letters spread across the front page of every newspaper like when the story first came about, it went to a tiny side note on the bottom of the entertainment section. Fine, unimportant print saying a child - whoever his name was - was found innocent.
Mike has been judged and looked down upon ever since. I feel bad for him actually. Believe it or not, Mike and I were best friends. Since we were little. That's what made me an easy target. Mike knew me too well - better than I do to be precise - so of course he knew I wouldn't fight back. Of course he knew the first time he slammed my head onto the hard concrete that I wouldn't tell anyone. I'm too much of a coward to do that. The best part is, even if I try to tell people, no one would believe me. Everyone loves Mike and now thanks to him and his little gang, I'm the world's biggest loser. Whatever I say isn't important enough for them to actually listen to for more than five seconds.
I jumped at the sudden noise, "W-What?"
"What do you want me to call you? You piece of shit." Another God-blessed characteristic about my stepdad, he hates my guts. In return, I hate his, but I doubt he even cares. I gazed sternly over the worn-down, old piece of machinery that shouldn't even be qualified as a vehicle. Only God knows what kinds of retched activities went on in this traveling disaster. Chipped neon green paint, the door barely attached to the car. How is it still running? "I asked you a question."
I heard a chime in the distance, the bell has rung. Thank God. "Bell. Bye Paul." I stammered and turned away just as he stopped scratching at the grey stubble on his chin. Does he know we're in public? As I turned, I caught a glimpse of Mike staring disgustingly at Paul. Great, as if he didn't have enough topics to tease me about already. I heard Paul mumble something about not being able to pick me up and then I was inside the huge building. The on-Earth version of hell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mike slightly picking up his pace. No. Please no. I started running towards my locker, it was safe there. My heart felt as if it were trying to burst through my chest as I fumbled to insert the combination and enter my only safe place. My sweet locker. Even though these lockers were rather small and could be considered uncomfortable, my fragile frame helps me stay in here easily. I've been in here so often it's like my little nest. A little Loser nest. I tried to peek through the small opening to see if Mike had forgotten about me yet, and he hasn't. He's fucking right outside the locker, looking at me.
"Cozy?" He laughed bitterly, "Charlie you're such a fucking freak! We don't even need to try. Look at you, you just shoved yourself into your own locker! Anorexic bitch."
I could hear the hallway erupt with laughter. I don't even understand, it was a lame joke. A lame joke that is my life, I guess. Mike's words stung. A lot. But I knew if I ever hold him how insecure I am it would jump right back in my face. Everything else already did.
"Just please go away," I whispered, "I didn't do anything. Please."
To my surprise, Mike was actually quiet. I think he's actually considering it. I slowly opened my eyes and quickly prepared myself for a silent thank you, but instead I saw my locker open. I was right in front of Mike, his orbs showing nothing but pure disgust and regret, and handing a razor towards me. I gagged at the lump in my throat. Mike finally spoke, "Do us all a favor and kill yourself. Seriously, your presence is just sad. Everywhere you go, you leave people feeling depressed. It lingers on you. Just do it, it's not like anyone would miss you anyway." Mike didn't wait a second longer to throw the razor my way. I just looked at it, perplexed.
"Oh and remember, it's down the road, not across the street." He gestured on his own arm, his right index finger representing the blade as he slices slowly down his left arm. He looks like an expert.
You all assume
I'm safe here in my room
Unless I try to start again...
Saying school sucked is an understatement. My head hurts so much, my knees are scraped, my nose is bleeding and I have a strong feeling most of my ribs are broken. But that was not from Mike and his little pack of hooligans. No, It was from my uncle Brad. Since I don't think of my stepdad as a real family member, I wouldn't really consider Brad as an uncle either. Brad is Paul's half-brother, no surprise that they're related, I guess. Sometimes when Paul and my mom decide to spend "a night out", I'm left with the oh-so-pleasant Bradford Delson. My surname was supposed to be Delson but there's no way in hell I'm letting go of my father, letting go of the person who probably cared for me. When he left, I broke apart - and that's putting it lightly.
I lye in my dark, hollow room. The only sound that can be heard is the soft, tick tocking of the broken clock. I sigh as I toss and turn on my rickety, dirty bed, facing down on my sunken, lumpy pillow that matches the interior room almost perfectly - dull.
Dull. Boring. Uncared for. Forgotten.
I can't control myself, uneven sobs escape my lips too easily nowadays. I take my head out of my pillow for a brief moment, just to get the small relief of being able to breathe. What's the point? The only being that needs me to breathe are plants; everyone else doesn't seem to care.
I'm sure the plants won't mind if there was one less person helping them out.
While I remember how to breathe, I look across the room to the small, open window. Damp curtains accompany the whooshing sound of the night sky, indicating it's raining. Good. I like the rain. The sounds of the rain drops against the dented window pane are always soft and soothing. It relaxes me.
I turned back to my pillow, bloodstained from my bleeding lip. I stare at the beautiful stain on the pillow, a twisted artwork of its own, now forever painted onto the lumpy cushion since nothing in here ever gets cleaned. I'm still naked. Brad didn't bother to think whether I wanted to keep my clothes after he was done, he just ripped it piece-by-piece as I lay there helplessly. I can still hear the harsh rips of the delicate fabric, one of the few long-sleeved shirts I had was now gone. I can't cover these up any longer.
The rain is coming down harder now and I can hear the faint sound of thunder in the distance. The perfect weather. I close my eyes as I listen to the sweet melody of the thunder, now getting closer. I can't do much else anyway. As I listen, I somehow hear Mike's voice. I frantically look around me and wince because of the sudden movement. He's not here.
I'm still alone.
I don't want to be the one
The battles always choose...
It's not here. I slump to my backpack as fast as possible, trying to get a better look. It's still not here. No, it has to be. I don't have anything else. Where is it? Where the fuck is it?
I notice a glimmer from the corner, poking out of my drawers by my bedside. Great, all the way back there again. I move fast this time. The pain is excruciating, but I don't care. Soon I won't be able to feel any pain at all. Just wait and see. I slowly grip the metallic object, enjoying the feel of it in my palms. It's in my control. For once, I'll get something that I actually wanted.
I loosen my hold on Mike's razor, loving the cuts it caused all across my inner palm. Nice and sharp, Mike is good to me. I look closer and find fine print written across the side of it.
"Property of Mike Shinoda. For Chester. I love you."
I stammer. He didn't call me Charlie. Oh, Mike. I love you too. You're putting me to peace, thank you.
'Cause inside I realize that I'm the one confused...
One, two, three, four.
Four cuts. For each member of my fucked up family.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Eight cuts. For every "friend" I thought I had.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
Twelve cuts. For all the years I've known Mike.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, six.
Sixteen cuts. For every year I've been on this wretched planet.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The slashes are incredibly deep, I'm surprised the blade hasn't gotten stuck in my flesh yet. So far the sensation has been incredible. I've never felt so alive, so in control.
I can feel.
"Remember what Mike was showing you," I whisper to myself, "Everyone will be happy."
Twenty cuts. For not fitting in with society. For not being "normal."
I felt dizzy and I knew I did well. But this time I didn't fight it. I let the tiredness consume me, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness.
I don't know what's worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
But now I have some clarity to show you what I mean
I don't know how I got this way
I know it's not alright
So I'm breaking the habit, tonight.
I sang softly to myself. My nice, alone self. I did it. I finally did something people will be happy about.
Slowly, I hear a sound. A sound that I've been ignoring my whole life. The most vital sound any human should hear, that's needed for existence - of all creatures. Whether you belong to society or not.
I heard my heartbeat. And smiled as it started to slow down.
Inspired by some shit I went through recently. I'm not sure how I feel about posting this, but I haven't updated any story in a while and felt like I needed to show what society is doing to people nowadays. I don't know. Let me know what you think in the reviews :) Thanks for reading *hands you cookies*