My face is bruised, beaten to a pulp.
Bloodied, and I did this with my own bare hands.
With one hand pulling the back of my hair, holding my face firmly in place, the other was held high up in the air, fist clenched, ready to deliver the first few blows, landing straight on my nose.
With each force of a punch, I burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Hysterical even. Yet soundless. Soundless because it is all in my head. Only I can hear it.
"It's all in your head, bitch! Snap out of it, or else, I'm going to punch you again and again, and again. Is that what you want?! Is this what you want?!"
This self-inflicted pain is designed to help me forget. Sort of like the Pavlov Dog. With every punch, I'm hoping the pain will teach me not to do it again.
Question is, how many more punches will it take before I learn? Before I surrender? How many more punches will I survive first before I start to truly heal?
If you ask me now what is it that I want exactly? My answer is, to not think about him. That, and a good smoke without breaking into a throaty cough.
All I want is to stop thinking about him every single fucking waking moment of this fucking miserable life.
24 September. 13 punches and counting. By then, the skin on my face has thickened, crusty.
The wound is clean......but it doesn't mean it stops hurting.