Lost Soul

Lost Soul
by SRG James

Like drawing a silver line over a piece of paper he drew a red line over his hand. He leaned his head back feeling the buzz he got from the pain. The adrenaline rush made him feel invincible. It was like a high you couldn’t get from any drugs. He sat at the edge of his bed with a knife in one hand and the other bleeding. His hand closed making a fist. Blood ran between his fingers and down his arm as he lifted the bleeding hand up and slowly ran his tongue along the cut. Tasting the salt in his blood topped it off; it topped of the rush, made him feel power, feel immune, feel alive.

He hated feeling dead everyday, hopeless, helpless. He hated his life, hated being afraid, hated being helpless. This way he could get away and feel the emotions that were not normally there. He loved it. His heart hardened more and more. He found himself finding little remorse for other things even if they were more helpless then he was. His hand opened and he grew angry.

Everything in the room grew hazy and it seemed as though his room grew dim. He would tell himself that it was better then becoming a drug addict or an alcoholic like his dad, but he knew each day his soul was slipping away. He slept less and found he liked to stay up at night and gaze into the dark. As the shadow grew darker, he became happier, totally engulfed in the black night knowing everyone else was asleep and he was safe. He looked back at his bleeding hand smiling, thinking of how cool it would be to become immortal and being able to get back at everyone that had tortured him throughout his life. He laid back in his bed pulled up the covers and fell asleep.

The next morning he woke up before the sun rose. Rubbing his dry eyes and walked into the kitchen. He looked through the cupboards and fridge before realizing he wasn’t really hungry in the first place. He looked at the clock it said 6:55, in five minutes everyone else would be awake and the day would start. He hated it, his life and he wanted to escape. Sitting there looking at the TV he realized it wasn’t on. He felt unusually tired and was wondering if he should milk the last few minutes before the day starts. He pointed the remote at the TV and pressed the power button, nothing happened. He shook his head and got up from the couch. This was ridiculous.

Walking down the hall he caught his mom walk by him, neither of them said anything. She must be going to make breakfast he thought as he flicked on the bathroom light. He put his hands down on the sink counter. An extreme feeling of anguish came over him as he felt pain in his left hand, remembering the night before he looked up tears in his eyes. He knew what he was doing was bad. He could feel himself slipping away everyday. He looked harder into the mirror, something was wrong.

Reaching out toward the mirror his hand touched the cold glass. He looked at his eyes in the reflection looking back at him. There was something wrong about his eyes. They were not his, they were missing something. At that moment he felt his blood turn cold and the reflection in the mirror, walked away. He watched himself walk away, still looking at the mirror. He realized what was wrong. His eyes had no soul. His mouth opened and he screamed, but there was no sound.