a snowflake on my tongue

CW: This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore and sexual abuse

My life laid out in front of me. I had always heard that happened but the reality didn't quite hit me until it happened. Frost bit upon the tips of my fingers as they dug into the mud around me. I wanted something to hold onto but the mud kept on slipping. My nose puckered and I breathed in and out through my mouth. It showed in the air. On the rolled out life, I first saw my childhood. My very very earliest memories were ones that I hadn't even remembered before this point. My mother and my father yelled at each other. Something about how my mother was pregnant with yet another child when they didn't have the funds to support the ones they already had. Both worked multiple jobs and each kid was separated out to different houses around the neighborhood to save on babysitting costs. The man who watched me was a family friend and would ask me to climb on his lap a lot. I would end up being the youngest and I don't know what happened to that other child. Father never really talked to me and neither did my siblings. Talking to my mother always ended up with me being hit so I didn't try much. Whenever she raised her hand, I would flinch which would make her coworkers gossip about what she was doing to me. This would make her hit me more. At school, I sat alone at the back of the class. I tried to listen in on what other kids were talking about. Despite the morning's forecast, it had begun to snow during recess. When I look back on the memory now, it plays like I am above myself. That I am beautiful and eternal, a great bird in the tree. The tree. I remember that tree. It had begun to snow and I sat beneath a tree. None of the other kids wanted to talk to me. Between then and the start of the year, I had already gotten into three fist fights, one of which escalated to us bashing each other with ice packs in our lunches. Even looking back on it now, I feel a sense of pride towards these wins. I watched all the other kids playing and sticking out their tongues for snowflakes. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. In class, we heard about how water circulates and that snowflakes likely have bacteria and muck inside them. I also had the idea that the bacteria molded into the snowflake's shape so that they would have a greater chance of infecting children. I began to search in the mud for worms where when I found one, I would place it on the tree and push my thumb into its skin until it died. The slimy texture seemed to linger on my fingers. I thought of it as a great painting. Later, that day, another teacher yelled and fainted when she found the scene. For but a moment, I returned to my spot in the alleyway. The smell in the air had now gotten metallic as blood seemed to seep in the middle of the air. I returned to my later years. I had really tried to get better. As middle school began to swing into my vision, the moment which my brain focused on became clear to me. People looked past me more and more. A lump in my throat started to develop when I tried to speak. In high school, I got into way less fights as people just didn't want to be around me. I tried to be better. I tried so hard. I volunteered at the library to help kids. I didn't really care much about them but I hoped that they would teach me something about myself. I also liked the time away from home. A dull little boy came to me and asked me to read to him as he couldn't do it himself. A large picture book with a battered plastic film over it. It counted different animals before ending with a single pigeon being thrown bread. The boy listened to me but I don't think his reading got any better. He kept staring off into nothing or at my face while I read. When I tried to get him to read, he simply declined and said how he couldn't. Despite me doing relatively well in school, I never went to college. After graduation, my parents had enough and threw me out. The family friend also thought I was too old to take care of now. My cold ass sat on the bus stop bench. One of the ones with odd bumps and ridges so I couldn't lay down. Smoke rose up from my lips into the cover above me. The area had some soot baked in from others like me doing the same. In my senior year, an older woman offered me cigarettes for the first time. I had never been able to stop since. That winter, I was officially homeless for half a year. I settled beneath a bridge beside that bus stop. The last of my money was now in between my fingers and in the smoke in my lungs. A part of me deeply enjoyed the burning sensation that came with my way of doing it. The dull boy from years past came up, boarded the bus, then left without a word. I could tell it was him from that look in his eyes when he looked at me. Blank canvas. At this point, I am a curator of the museum which is I and I am the museum and the curator of it but above all else the content and the gray walls and the museum itself. Underneath my rib, a gash lay bare. A serrated edge tore some of the lining out the jacket. The blade had slipped straight through it, through the shirt underneath, the undershirt, and into the skin. I didn't see who did it. My pointer finger dug into the wound to create a terrible warmth that covered the horrible pain that preceded it. Very warm. I couldn't tell how long it had been since the stabbing. I also couldn't tell why they did it. Perhaps I was that repulsive. A presence that needed to be culled. Like the worst of society. A worm. I stand as the curator looking upon myself. I say to myself and to the other viewers, "This is the last piece that he ever made and what a fitting one at that. Gaze upon how the fool cannot even try to save himself.” A couple years back, I was working this job at a gas station and one of my siblings walked in with his kids. He didn't notice me. Cigarettes, two packs of gum, a bag of chips, and sparkling water. The order memorized still in my brain as a deep imprint. As he was walking out, I tried to scream out to my brother. But the lump in my throat had grown too large. I didn't even try to call for help now. I knew the same would occur. My breath reached up into the sky before dissipating before my eyes. My eyes began to sink. My eyes faded. My eyes. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to scream out to the gods. Take me back. My life laid out in front of me but so little that the parchment ran thin. Holes in my memory where they should've been none. Where is this? It is all a blur. All of it. A blur across my eyes. My hand came up to my face. Deep dark crimson red. It had even started to dry and become sticky. On the back, blood soaked into the creases and underneath my nails. Then a sweet silence started to hit. Perhaps the loss of blood had finally come to my brain but it was so nice. My thoughts started to slow. Slow in a kind way. I heard the laughing of the children by the alley. Something about a new game that had just come out. The monotonous sounds of cars. I opened my eyes once more and the brick around me started to look more natural. Perhaps it was my fault, or perhaps not at all. I saw myself from an outside view now, beautiful and eternal. A mouth wide open, tongue against the air reaching for a lone snowflake. It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.