ABC FLASH FICTION

Flash Fiction

Postpartum depression

Almost every day, i wake up with drops of sweat running down my cheeks and neck. Bright days come and I’m sitting by myself talking to the doll that’s underneath my bed. Constantly shaking like a blender, i then decide to open up the curtains.

Days like these make me want to rip my heart off my chest and then fix all the darkness that it has consumed. Entering the room, I opened my eyes and closed my mind, not wanting to overthink but I wanted to see every soul. Furiously closing my hands; feeling the nails cut right through my skin. Grinding my teeth while they break piece by piece, I then rolled my eyes without even noticing. “Hurray!” I spoke to myself, “I can actually be tough too”.

Irritating, scandalous and pathetic; that’s what I should be thinking about them, but they overpower me, they want to kill me with their harsh words. Just in case I die, I want to be remembered as a friendly, tough, honest and hardworking person. Killing myself right now I will only be remembered as a “hoe,” “easy,”and “weak”. Lack of love, lack of money and lack of spirit are not things you actually desire.

Melancholia creeps when I think about my little angel. Negativity also takes over my mind while I get all of these flashbacks; I was 14 and pregnant. Obsessed with her tiny feet, tiny hands,  the throaty and growling noise of her cry, and her beautiful big brown eyes. Panicking over how to become a dad and a mom, all in one, made me anxious and preoccupied of my baby’s future. Questions that I asked myself were the type of questions that I had to answer to my kid; “how can I raise a child when I’m still a child” I frequently ask myself. Reality then hits me like a ton of bricks; I have to now learn how to cook, find a job that pays me good enough to pay a babysitter  in order for me to keep up with my education, and wake up an hour earlier to get my bag ready.

Staying on this bed by myself after two days of giving birth have reduced my appetite and concentration, also, I’ve been having problems sleeping; all i think about is how to succeed as a single mother. Terrific moments must come before i grab that syringe and just stab my throat off my neck. Unforgettable experiences hunt me down when i look at the scars and bruises, through them I see the reflection of her father. Victim to my own love and desires. Worthless is the word that I imagine when I see that man whore son of a bitch !!! talking about getting me back. X are the amount of chances that I gave him. Yes, I may sound weak and pathetic but I feel like I want to drown in my own tears; images of this innocent ball of energy that i call my daughter appear every time. Zero is the number of men that are ever going to hurt my fragile heart, ever again.