The empty glass

Photo by Weak Lifter on Unsplash

Anger.

I am watching these rehearsed sad expressions on the faces surrounding me and I have a desire to rip them off their skulls.

These hypocrites stuff their snouts with pie and whiskey supposedly in the memory of the deceased. Apparently they are deeply bereaved. They all knowingly discuss how you never know what’s in someone’s head.

One is surely born this way. Something was wrong with him from the beginning. They are all certain of it.

Anger.

I hear the desperate mother explaining how she gave him everything. She did everything to provide for him. She could not afford much for herself, but there was always enough for him. He ended up having a good job, a good relationship, he lacked for nothing, all thanks to her. She sacrificed everything for him. She didn’t have a life so she could give him a better one. How could he leave so cowardly, how could he do that to her? He was always ungrateful.

To her? How could he do that to her?

I try to hold back but it doesn’t work. I am shaking as darkness clouds my mind.

Anger.

The glass from the table flew towards the wall. The sound of the shattering glass invoked the silence. I saw the weeping face of a young woman mouthing the word: STOP.

I don’t.

Anger.

To you? Is this about you again?

Do you know anything about your child? Do you even know who he is? Do you even know how brave he was?

How many times did you put him down, humiliate him, belittle him? How many times have you told him he didn’t deserve that great sacrifice of yours?

Do you have any idea how guilty he felt about your shitty life?

He was 13 years old when he first asked: Why doesn’t anyone love me? Why won’t she love me? Am I that bad?

Do you know why it was so important to him to go to school 500 km away at the age of 15? It was to be as far away from you as possible! He couldn’t wait to leave because no one wanted him here anyway.

It was hard for him, but he was always embarrassed to admit it. He never told you that for the first 4 months he cried quietly every night, hidden in the bathroom. He endured because even that was better than coming home.

Summer vacations were a nightmare. He hated the feeling of guilt that you installed in him for everything you deemed not good enough.

You made him feel worthless.

For every B grade, for every minor failure, for every mistake, even the smallest one, your frustrations would burst outright at him.

You are the same lazy ass liar as your father! I’m going to pack you up and send you to him. Go there and be a lowlife like he is, I’ve had enough!

That hurt him. This man had left him too.

But you couldn’t love him. Your petty little soul only suffered because it got stuck with the child. You convinced him that your life would be better if it weren’t for him.

Anger.

I took your advice.

Is it easier for you now? Is your life better? I guess you are the victim again? You are always the victim.

I hate you, I wanted to hurt you, to punish you. I wanted to drag you to hell with me.

I now realize that you have been in hell your whole life, and you kept me there with you.

This is the hell of my own choosing at least.

I did not think that this is the way he would do it.

And all of you here, is your conscience at peace? You all knew what was going on and you did what? Nothing!

Let me remember the exact fuckin’ words.

It’s not easy for your mom. You have to understand her.

A pat on the back and some money in the pocket. That is how you bought your conscience. You did not want to “interfere”. It was not your place to meddle.

Cowards! Miserable, petty, and lazy fucks!

Anger.

Do any of you know what it is like to live and feel small and insufficient all of your life? After a while, you buy into the humiliation and identify with that person. You believe the worst about yourself.

None of you know what it’s like when no one protects you and everyone just tramples over you. No one would stand up for me, ever. If you had left me alone in the field as a newborn, I would have hade a better life than this existence.

Nothing I have ever achieved was good enough for you! You needed me to stay small so you could feel better about your pathetic excuses for existence, that you call lives.

I only asked for little respect, for breadcrumbs of attention, but that wasn’t possible, was it?

Do you think that now I have had enough? Do you feel good about your accomplishment? There, I proved you right.

Damn and miserable souls.

Anger.

Even when I left, when I got out of your lives and under your claws you couldn’t leave me alone. You made me feel guilty about my success and responsible for your failures.

The only thing I ever wanted was to live in peace, but it was too late I couldn’t.

You broke my will to live when I was a child so no matter what I did I had to check out early.

I was always a dead man on leave. A random name and a few numbers.

And all of you will continue to live without losing sleep. You will continue to insult and humiliate me because I am finally free.

I took a leap of courage, but you see me as a coward. That is your prerogative.

Fuck you.

Despite it all, there were people who loved me. There were people who tried to fill in that hole in my soul.

They watched me fade, but there was nothing they could do.

Some people hoped, that if once I could feel happy, I might like it.

But in the end, it wasn’t enough.

I just wanted you all to be happy for me, happy with me, but you couldn’t.

I was always chasing success, always with a new dream and I was never, ever happy when I would reach it.

You still used me like a fucking doormat.

Even now, my body is six feet underground, you cannot stop.

And the saddest thing is that I believed I would finally make you happy once I am gone.

Those who really cared now live with the knowledge that they failed to help me.

For that I am sorry. It is not your fault. You helped me last this long. You made it bearable.

And you, the woman who gave birth to me. I will continue to serve as an excuse for the life you screwed up for yourself.

To you, I just say this:

Go fuck yourself you miserable excuse for a human being.

Anger.

My gaze is fixed on the weeping eyes and lips that mouth slowly: STOP.

But I was not really here. She was chanting to herself. She felt the same anger.

A life had disappeared just because people stamped it with “Best used by” stamp, and discarded it as an empty milk carton.

I looked in the direction of the broken glass.

There was no point to it anymore.

It was always empty, and now I still walk thirsty. It is time to move on from all of this.

No more anger. Peace? Perhaps.

Even a different kind of torment is peace.

I do not belong here anymore.

I am sorry. Sorry that I couldn't do more.

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Writer, gamer, thinker. Art must inspire questions or emotions. Everything else is just entertainment. I studied to be a priest — became a cynic instead.

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Marko Manevski

Marko Manevski

Writer, gamer, thinker. Art must inspire questions or emotions. Everything else is just entertainment. I studied to be a priest — became a cynic instead.

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