WorNWorm II.

I’ve never really wanted to hug anyone; instead I tend to pull away. When someone hugs me, I freeze up. When their warmth touches my skin, it feels like it leaves some kind of mark, and it makes me extremely uncomfortable. But when I was a child, I guess I didn’t care much about it. Even in theory, the idea doesn’t feel nice to me. In crowds I feel like I’m not even there. I’ll go into this more comfortably in a moment, but in general, people’s movements… they make me uneasy.

I once wrote something about how even children can be cruel, but I won’t deny that I admire pure and innocent people. Talking to them feels like I’m staining them with my own darkness. I’m more gentle around them, I guess. I think they change as they grow up because of spending time with other people. “Save babies.”

If someone were truly kind to me, would my opinion change? (I’m going question by question; sorry if it’s confusing.) I don’t think so. But what even is my concept of “kindness”? People already act nice and peaceful toward me, and that feels like a fake mask. A truly virtuous person wouldn’t try not to be bad, because they simply wouldn’t have that badness inside them. But all people have some kind of darkness in them. So I would probably just stare into their eyes and say nothing—just something like “leave me alone, I don’t care.”

When I stop talking to people, stop calling them, or disappear for a while—when I go into social isolation—no one calls me. Not even my family. This makes me feel like when I’m not interacting with people, I basically don’t exist. I think that if I move away for university someday and live alone, everyone will scatter anyway, and no one will find my body if I die. I don’t think I’ll kill myself at this point, but if something happened to me and I couldn’t call for help… anyway.

Good night, Acheron. I’ll be found in like seven years, I guess.

I’m generally neutral about everything. When I talk, I feel forced. When I don’t eat, I don’t feel the need to; it feels like just fuel to keep me upright. I only sleep when my body forces me to. The psychosis-like things I experience still continue. Someone taps on my windows with their finger. Before sleeping, I felt its fingers on my body—it tingled. I don’t know when it entered my room, but this one is different from the others. It doesn’t just make noise; it likes touching too. I haven’t named it yet, but it’s standing behind me right now, maybe reading what I’m writing. I’ve seen the old ones; I’ve heard them, but they never touched me even when they were close.

This is only part of what I experience. Sometimes I think I exaggerate these things or try to fit them into a pattern. I accept them now and try to befriend whatever I see. I’m not sure if I’m losing my mind over time, but the only thing that really scares me is what’s outside my room.

I attempted suicide three or four times. I remember sitting on my balcony until morning, looking into the distance, ready to jump. My legs were already hanging off the edge when the door opened. Now there’s a cabinet blocking my balcony door so it can’t be opened. The people I live with didn’t care back then. I remember the woman who gave birth to me saying, “If you’re going to jump,Then  jump.”

For them, my absence would be a relief because my existence disturbs everything, like I’m a wrong code—unseen but inherently unpleasant. I have no emotional bond with my family. That day I got up afterward, got ready for school, went to class, and just slept with my head on the desk like nothing happened.

Same things, every time. A routine. You can’t escape. I can’t. Or maybe I could, but how? Where? Everywhere is the same, everywhere is empty.

The end. (From here on, I’ll probably go moment by moment.)