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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/736919-My-Hell
by Clos
Rated: ASR · Column · Emotional · #736919
It was the eyes that gave him away. They were hollow, empty; a reflection of his soul.
         Looking at him, no one would ever know.
         They would never know the hell he went through, the internal frustrations inside his head, the depression looming over him twenty-four seven, nothing.
         They would never know any of that, because he didn’t want them to.
         He was, what some like to call, a fake.
         His attitude was tough guy, his happiness seemed real, his confidence high…what about that seemed unbelievable?
         Nothing, until you got to know him. Then you saw how cold-hearted and uncaring he really was.
         He was fine with it; he knew his life was played out, he knew his entire presence was an act. Little by little, he grew to accept it, to cope with it. To him, it became a part of his everyday life, because if he didn’t act, he would have been screaming.
         After having gone through what he has, he should’ve had the right to be angry, right? He should’ve had the right to try to be something he’s not, to try and be a better person, even though it never worked.
         Maybe it’s the fact that he just didn’t care much about anything anymore. The concern for others, their problems, their wants, they didn’t exist for him. All that existed for him were his schoolwork and anticipation for the future. They consumed him, draining all the energy from his body. And that sometimes set him apart, which made him more hateful than he already was.
         But he built a barrier. He didn’t care what people said about him, so he thought, and he learned to ignore.
         Yet sometimes it was hard to do even that. It was the eyes that gave him away. They were hollow, empty; a reflection of soul. But that’s what the mask was for.
         If there’s one thing he truly enjoyed more than anything in the world, it was confrontations. Any chance to show someone up, make them look stupid, bring them lower than him, and he was there. I guess you could say that was his method of getting attention.
         He had the reputation among his friends of being this tough guy, this person who was not afraid to say anything, and that’s exactly what he wanted.
         If they like me for that, then I like me for that, he would think.
         Yet inside, it was killing him.
         Why God, he would ask, why am I like this? Why must I be like this? Do I really have problems?
         To know the real him would shock you. Inside this little boy was someone who was scared to death of everything, someone who was insecure about his thoughts, his actions; he was utterly confused.
         His head was constantly spinning, never knowing where to look next, or what to do about anything. His family conditions weren’t much better; he stayed out of the house as much as possible. So where did he go when he had problems?
         Nowhere. He kept them in his head, in his mind. And they tore away at him. His secrets, his impurities, his denials, they were all kept to himself. They were for him to remember late at night, when he laid in bed thinking about how much he hated his life.
         Now, granted, there have been people he’s spilled little bits of his life to, and through those moments, he’s seen their pain, their trials.
         So I’m not the only one, he would think.
         And that would feebly stitch together one of the many holes in his soul.
         He’s thought about suicide, running away, doing drugs, but that’s all they’ve ever been to him. Thoughts. Thoughts to make him smile, make him laugh.
         Yeah right, he would think, like I would ever do any of that…
         People would ask him what was wrong with him, why he was laughing at something morbid, or why he didn’t care about a certain topic. And he would just shrug his shoulders and say “I know I have problems. But they’re mine, not yours, so worry about yourself.”
         They would turn away, and he would long to yell out, to tell them he really isn’t that bad. But he wouldn’t.
         They have their own problems without having to worry about mine, he would think.
         And life would go on. Everyday, he did this, yet everyday, he made himself a bit more confident, a bit happier. Everyday, he put on his mask, and no one had even the slightest clue.
         He surrounded himself with laughter, or at least he tried to. He would put on a smile, and people would think that everything was just fine.
         By now he has become an expert at concealing his emotions, his thoughts.
         And at the end of the day, when he would sit down with his head in his hands and pray to God for some sense of comfort, he would cry and cry until his heart physically hurt, and all those problems concealed deep within him would come rushing into his head.
         Stop it, he would think, you’re such a baby. Get over it, it’s life.
         Little by little, it’s grown on him, become a part of his everyday life, and he knows it.
         Will he ever change? Maybe, but he has been doing this for years now, and tomorrow will be no different. Tomorrow, he will again conceal his hell from the world, and no one will ever know.

Carlos Figueroa

*For those who have read my Christian pieces--this story is about me about seven months prior to the events which took place in the article "Heaven's Rain." If you want to read about how I saved myself, check out this link:
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php?item_id=730189
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