Lovicidium

Independent, single-muse original character named Karlyle Lyons, where we will be exploring the themes of being unwanted, emotional neglect, depression, and self-destruction. A character shaped by neglect rather than violence; by parents who tolerated him instead of loved him, by friendships built on convenience, and by a lifetime spent believing he was fundamentally difficult to care for. - Loved by Wami.

Blogroll: nihilomania ( very low activity ), parasaite ( barely any activity ), and masqueradely ( unsure what to do with this one ).

My parents never liked me, I dinnae think. Either that, or the way of showin' they loved me was really fucked up. My mother never paid any attention to me, and my father was too busy wi' work. I. . . grew up thinkin' love wis supposed tae feel like pressure, like someone was pressin' their hands against yer chest and ye had to hold oan for dear life. . . jist so they wouldnae let go. My parents. . . I think they merely tolerated me. I knew I had to keep myself small, keep myself oot o' trouble for their sake. They were never cruel in the ways folk usually think. Mom an' dad never lay their hands on me, never yelled at me, or called me names. Sometimes. . . I wish they did. They jist looked at me like I was somethin' that had gone wrang somewhere alang the way, and no one knew how tae fix it. Every single emotion I had wis treated like I was a creation gone wrang, a malfunction. When I was sad, they would dismiss it as dramatics. When I was angry, they'd tell me I wis disrespectful. W-When I wis afraid o' their stares or for an upcomin' test, they would call me weak. And when I hurt masel', they withdrew. They never asked if I was okay or gave me a shoulder tae greet oan. " What's wrang with ye? " That's whit I heard, time an' time again. It taught me tae keep the pain I had to masel'. 'Cause if Ah shared it wi' anybody, I'd be treated like an inconvenience. Pain wis somethin' ye dealt wi' alone.I ken that now.Hah, I tried sae fuckin' hard. I really did. I wanted tae be the kind o' son they wanted. I kept quiet, kept my grades decent, and the problems I had tae masel'. If my father looked tired, I never asked if he wis okay, jist stayed oot the way. An' if my mother ignored me or glared at me when I tried tae talk to her, I told masel' no' tae bother her. I became good at disappearin' while still technically bein' there. Why? 'Cause it wis better than bein' called wrang by yer ain parents. Sometimes I'd sit in the same room as them an' feel like a ghost nobody had noticed yet. They both always ignored me, no matter whit I did. I thought tae masel', sae many times, that if I could dae a single thing right, they'd look my way ⸻ jist a glance, anything that could show me that they cared, even if only a little bit.But nothin' ever changed.Nothin' mattered; the room always felt the same. Cold, indifferent, and almost hateful. I wis jist an extra chair somebody forgot tae remove fae the dinner table. An', despite my efforts, I came to understand somethin' as a child: affection an' attention are nae the same thing. My parents would notice me when I did somethin' wrang, when I cried and threw tantrums, or when I spoke when they didnae want me tae. They noticed what I did wrang, but they never noticed my efforts or the way I tried tae be good for them. So, eventually, I stopped tryin' tae be seen. I kept everythin' inside masel', 'cause I knew my problems would only burden folk aroond me. I had tae swallow it doon, no matter how much it hurt. I learned to lie on my bed and stare at the ceilin', no' really understandin' how tae share my pain. 'Cause whit else wis I supposed tae dae? If I couldnae bring it up tae them, my ain parents, how can I bring it up tae anyone else? They'd already made it clear that my emotions were problems tae be corrected, nae understood.That's why I started cuttin'.Yeah, horrifying. Whitiver. At least the pain makes me forget I wis never loved or cared for. It happened accidentally, really. It wis a compass point fae maths class draggin' across the skin o' my palm. I wis frustrated 'cause I couldnae solve this stupid problem. An' fer those three, tiny seconds, I wasnae thinkin' aboot mom an' dad. No' their stares, or their judgment. Jist the pain. I wis only thinkin' aboot that thin white line appearin' oan my skin. That wis only the start of it.. I got smart aboot hidin' it pretty quick, knew where tae hide the marks ⸻ thighs, forearms, all places I could hide wi' my clothes. The neck ones were a mistake, sure. But turtlenecks usually did the work. Whether it was summer or no', I didnae care so lang as the scars stayed hidden. Pfft, ha! It's funny, really. First wis the compass, then a sharp razor blade I stole fae my father's toolbox. I wrapped it in toilet paper an' hid it inside an old calculator didnae even work anymore. Whenever that heavy feelin' sat oan my chest, I'd lock masel' in the bathroom an' drag it across my skin. My parents never cared, or even asked me if I wis okay. No one knocked on the door, even when I'd been in there for hours. That's the part that really gets me, I think. The silence, the indifference. 'Cause surely there's meant tae be a moment when a parent realises somethin's wrang wi' their child an' comes runnin' tae help, right? But nothin' like that ever happened to me.An' I knew that, at one point, they kent.Ye can only hide somethin' like that for so lang. There's nae way they didnae know. Mom approached me first. I wis in the kitchen gettin' water wi' my sleeve rolled up slightly. She grabbed my wrist, an' made me drop the glass. I froze. I didnae know what to do as she fully rolled up my sleeve, exposin' my damaged skin. She stared at it for a lang time without saying anything. So I waited. Waited for concern. Waited for anger. Waited for somethin'. My chest hurt sae badly I thought I wis gonnae be sick. But in the end. . . nothing beautiful l came o' it, only a sigh. Like she wis ashamed o' me. " Karlyle. . . . " She said, still starin' at my arm. " How long's this been goin' oan? " Questions. Not why. Never why. " Dae yer teachers ken? Whit if somebody sees? " I think. . . somethin' inside me broke that day. I dinnae know what, but somethin' did.Dad wisnae any different.When mom told him, all he did wis rub at his temples like I'd given him a bloody headache before askin' if I wis daein' it " for attention ". . . . I couldnae help but laugh. If I hadnae laughed, I would've started screamin'. Hah, attention. As if I would carve masel' tae bits jist tae be looked at for five fuckin' seconds. It got worse after that. Doctors. Therapist appointments. Fuckin'. . . . pills lined up beside my toothbrush in the bathroom. My parents suddenly became very efficient and organized. An' yet. . . . even still. . . they never once fuckin' asked how I felt. Never. It wis like they wanted the symptoms gone without ever acknowledgin' the pain underneath them. They didnae care aboot the reason; they jist wanted tae " fix me " sae nobody would scrutinize them. Tae mantain this image o' bein " perfect parents " ⸻ like if they threw enough money an' resources at me, I'd magically become normal again an' we could all go back tae pretendin' we were this nice " functional " wee family. That's what sucked the most. 'Cause from the outside, tae other people, they looked like nice, " caring parents " daein' their best for their son. Meanwhile, I wis sittin' in offices explainin' my feelings tae strangers while the two folk who were supposed tae ken me best couldnae even bear tae look directly at whit wis happenin' tae me.I started gettin' worse efter that.It wis an odd, painful sort o' feeling. Like pieces o' me were bein' worn doon bit by bit till there wis barely anythin' left. I couldnae sleep right. Couldnae eat right either. Some mornings I'd wake up an' immediately feel disappointed that I hadnae died in my sleep, an' then feel guilty fer thinkin' somethin' sae horrible when my life wis supposed tae be " good "; a good life, education, opportunities, all the things folk say ye should be grateful for. That word. . . it followed me fuckin' everywhere. If everythin' aroond me wis good, then that meant I wis the problem. No' my parents. No my life. Me.So, I decided tae move.By the time I turned eighteen, I told my parents I wanted tae move. Live oan my ain. They had the money tae make that happen fer me, an' they were more than happy tae help, thinkin' that maybe distancing myself from them would " fix " me. Tae be honest, I think part o' them wis relieved they wouldnae have tae hear me pacing roond the house at night anymore. I think they convinced themselves that givin' me my ain place was an act o' love. Maybe, in their ain fucked up way, it wis. Dad paid for the apartment without hesitatin'. It wis oan the " good side " o' the city. Expensive as fuck, tae me anyway. But tae my dad, it wis pocket change. Mom bought furniture I never asked for. She wanted the place tae feel lived in, even though I wis the only person there. All expensive, spotless things. Haha. . . . They never understood that whit I wanted wisnae materialistic. I didnae want money. Didnae want furniture. Didnae want a fancy flat. I jist wanted somebody tae ask if I wis okay. I wanted presence. But I dinnae think they ever cared enough tae realise that. Folk like my parents dinnae ken how tae love unless they can package it intae somethin' practical ⸻ money, medication. . . distance, that wis their version o' love. They never cared tae learn mine.I thought livin' alone might make me feel better until I realized how lonely it actually wis. I started sleepin' through entire afternoons, stayin' awake until sunrise, and ignorin' texts for weeks at a time. So, I started stayin' at other folk's places. Uh, lassies' places. Sex, basically. No' that I wis some kind o' heartbreaker wantin' tae use folk for ma own enjoyment. Far fae it, really. I jist felt like that type o' intimacy wis the only way for me to feel. . . wanted. Not loved, no. I dinnae think I wis that confused or delusional. Love felt too permanent an' scary, but bein' wanted for a night? That I could handle. I did try dating. . . plenty o' times, but it never ended well. Temporary closeness, temporary warmth, temporary proof that maybe there wis still something'aboot me another person could desire without runnin'. So started keepin' everythin' shallow oan purpose, 'cause I always assumed folk would leave once they saw enough o' me.There were plenty of folk who tried tae understand me, especially the lassies I dated.
An' I hated masel' for how badly I wanted them tae.Fern. . . she. . . she wis, too sweet. I still remember the day she saw my scars an' started greetin'. She looked at me like I wis hurt instead o' broken. I think that wis the moment I realized how deeply fucked up my perception o' love actually wis. It still is. I dinnae think that'll ever really change, no matter how much I've tried. Fern's kindness felt suspicious tae me. That's the pathetic part. Mind ye, she had her ain problems too. So eventually, like all my relationships, we drifted apart. I. . . still feel bad aboot it. Fern wis never cruel tae me, an' tried harder than anyone else ever had, but I didnae ken how tae let somebody love me without constantly waitin' for them tae regret it. I kept expectin' rejection aroond every corner, so I started actin' like it had already happened. So we both slowly pulled away fae each other. Haha, she still checks oan me sometimes. Silly lass.Eventually, I dropped oot o' college.It wisnae some dramatic exit or anythin'. I didnae storm oot a classroom or have some huge fuckin' breakdown in the middle o' campus. Honestly, hah, that probably would've been easier tae explain. Easier tae point at an' say, there, that's where everythin' fell apart. But no, it wisnae like that. It started wi' me missin' one class. Then another, 'cause I couldnae bring masel' tae get oot o' bed. Assignments kept pilin' up while I kept tellin' masel' I'd catch up eventually. I never did. I stopped answerin' the emails my lecturers sent me, an' deadlines passed right over my heid. Every task started feelin' like proof that maybe everybody had been right aboot me all along. That I wis lazy, an' had nae future. Haha. . . by the end o' my first term, I wis already done an' barely functionin'. I'd sit in lecture halls starin' at the ceilin' without processin' a single fuckin' word bein' said. Folk there often laughed at me, too. I didnae have any real pals; most o' them were for show. After all, my parents were rich. O' course there were hidden intentions behind nearly every friendship I made oan campus. Still, nobody wis surprised when I dropped oot. Least o' all my parents. Disappointed? Maybe. Embarrassed? Holy fuck, yes. But surprised? Naw. When it happened, my dad didnae yell at me either. Honestly, I wish he had. Instead he jist questioned me. Asked whit I planned tae dae now, an' whether I still expected tae live oan ma ain despite my failures. My mom jist looked. . . tired. She always looked tired whenever I failed tae become the version o' masel' she wanted. So I decided to keep livin' by masel'. It wis must better than lookin' at my parents' faces. At least when I wis alone, I didnae have tae watch disappointment settle across somebody's expression every time I walked intae a room. I didnae want to suffer 'cause o' them anymore.The flat became this strange limbo after that. It wis tae empty tae feel comfortin' but too familiar tae leave behind. I starten' workin' late shifts, came home exhausted an' slept through the day before I went back tae the same old retail store. Sometimes I wouldnae speak tae another person for days unless it wis a customer at work askin' where somethin' wis stocked. An' I started preferrin' it that way. Silence hurt less, or at least that's whit I kept tellin' masel'. The funny thing is, depression doesnae always feel dramatic. Tae me, it just feels embarrassingly mundane. Like, piles o' laundry ye cannae bring yersel' tae wash or fuckin. . . empty energy drink cans scattered across the kitchen counter. Or starin' at unread messages for hours while convincing yersel' nobody actually wants tae hear fae ye anyway. At least I got really good at makin' my life look functional from the outside. Folk dinnae realize how easy it is tae hide when ye've been practicin' yer whole life.An' every now an' then, my parents would reach out.
Usually through money.My dad would transfer absurd amounts into my account without warnin'. My mother would send me texts askin' if I'd bought groceries, or if I needed anythin' for the flat. They never asked if I wis happy or survivin'. They never even asked if I wis still hurtin' masel'. Jist practical things. It wis easier fer them to pretend I wis okay an' keep their perfect image. Ah, my mom would sometimes text me " I love you ", an' I would look at it, tryin' tae feel somethin'. But they never felt. . . honest. Like that wis just somethin' she wis supposed tae dae. Okay, maybe that's unfair. Maybe my parents did love me, in their ain, fucked up way. But if that's true, then why did I grow up feelin' sae unbearably unwanted? Why did every act o' affection feel conditional? Why did I spend half my childhood convinced that if I became inconvenient enough, they'd eventually stop lookin' at me altogether? I dinnae know the answer tae that.An' the older I get, the less I think I ever will.