Chapter 4- the cut that always bleed (a thorn sharp enough to cut)

That night, I left everything I had known forever. I was covered in purple blotches that bled into sickly yellow, with my knuckles swollen—not from fighting back, but from repeatedly catching myself from the floor. After eleven years, and five different schools, I was done. There were no goodbyes and no explanations. Just an empty desk with a name that would fade from their memories as easily as chalk washed from a board. Every school was a circus with a twisted pecking order where the lions ruled and the acrobats performed, while the freaks just watched. For once, I was going to be the ringmaster in my own life—stepping out of the shadows where everyone had placed me, and into the spotlight, where maybe I could finally breathe. Where maybe I could stop being the punchline of everyone else's joke.

The first few nights, I slept on a bench that felt like nails digging into my skin. The nights were the worst, with the coldness wrapped around me like a bitter shroud, leaving only my thoughts as company. I spent most of my time in my own head, replaying my pathetic excuse for a life on repeat. The voices in my mind were louder than ever now, echoing the insults I had heard from classmates and strangers alike. They blurred together, all the names, all the faces. Then my stash ran out. Oxycodone was expensive in the 1990s, and I had no money left. With no choice, I mixed the last of my Oxycodone with weed I bought from a dealer with money I barely scraped together. As the days blurred together, my skin crawled, like something gnawing at me from the inside. No matter how hard I scratched, it wouldn't stop. A deep emptiness twisted in my stomach, growing tighter with each moment. The only thought in my head was "Why am I still alive?"

There was no answer, why would there be? It was just the hollow sound of my breath. I could feel by mouth rotting. The world felt muted, distant. I was drifting, untethered from everything. I wandered through the city, through streets I didn't know, passing by people who never looked twice at me. I could feel their indifference like a slap, but I didn't care anymore. I just needed a break from the noise in my head.

Eventually, I found myself hitchhiking, my thumb raised to the sky like a desperate prayer- and unlike a real prayer, mine would be answered. An older man in a rusty truck pulled over, and I climbed into the cab, the seat worn and uncomfortable beneath me. Four hundred kilometers from the familiar streets of Sydney, I felt the grip of loneliness tighten around my chest. I spent days drifting from bench to bench, searching for something—anything—to rest my shattered mind. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt real peace. Each day, the thoughts became heavier, and the empty spaces inside me seemed to stretch further. One night, the world blurred, each breath growing heavier as my body sank into the abyss. I thought maybe I'd finally sleep forever.

Then I felt it—a soft, gentle touch. Her finger on my skin, light as a whisper, pulling me back. Her name was Rose, and unlike her name, she had no thorns. Her face began to blur, and I began to see nothing but a shadow of a woman with curly hair. She spoke to me, but I couldn't answer her questions because my throat tightened as if the words were caught in a case out of my reach.

Her eyes were kind, yet I could see the understanding there—something in them knew the darkness I carried. She told me she worked with The Salvation Army, helping people like me find housing and support. It felt like a fleeting dream, like something too good to be true. But her voice was calm, steady, pulling me out of the fog. Then it began—my body shook violently, each tremor stealing more control until my muscles seized, and the darkness swallowed me once more.

It was as if the world had turned off for a moment—no sound, no light, only the crushing weight of the darkness pulling me under. But in the faintest corner of my mind, I felt her presence—Rose, like a lifeline reaching for me. She was still there, her hand on mine, her voice soft but insistent. "You're not alone," she whispered. But the world around me was already fading, slipping out of reach.