You are not in a bathroom. You are not curled up in the corner. There are no tears on your face. Your body is clean, unmarred, tolerable. There are no tears on your face. You cannot hear the screaming. There are no tears on your face. You can't even remember what you just saw. And above all, you are just so glad there are no damn tears on your face.

... 

This isn't working, is it? 

...

Let's try something else.

You are standing in a parking lot, in front of a sports stadium. Colorful banners, massive, hang from the sides, advertising the concert here tonight. You can hear your favorite band's pre-show mix playing from inside, and the air smells like sugary and oily concessions. Your partner steps out of the car you just drove them here in, and they smile at you, repressing a squeal of delight, as they say something about how exciting everything is. The pain noise doesn't even bother you as you approach the stand of trees  stadium. Your partner asks you something about being ready to scream your heart out, but you don't answer because they aren't there you're too excited. You reach out to hold their hand as you approach the stadium

and the illusion breaks. you can't feel their hand, or rather you can't imagine how the touch of a loved one feels. you are- no, you're not. you are at least in a parking lot. and... it is raining. you shiver, it is cold and dark. the parking lot looks like a void, the rain so thick it is impossible to see features beyond. just rows of empty lots and tall, lonely streetlamps. if you were really here, what you need is

fire. you reach into your pocket, pulling a cracked smartphone lit torch from your pocket. It fills you with a sense of encouragement, of community. It warms you to your bones. You can't even feel the tears on your face rain. Something whispers from the torch, whispers hope. Whispers encouragement. Whispers friendship. You find you are able to control the shape the fire in your hands, like all the magical powers you always wished you had. If you speak to it kindly, if you feed its delusions and forget everything that has made you you, it will drive back the rain. It grows, spiraling outward, growing branches, until you are sheltered by a great tree of fire. And the tree grows, burning away the rain. Burning away the air. Burning away the 

floor. you don't even know who you are anymore. a month looms over you like a reaper. everyone you know expects you to sacrifice something of yourself for them, then tells you they've loved you better than the others. either that or they've left you alone. alone with your thoughts. alone with the fire. alone in your own little hell. No, you have not come to Hell. You have always been here. The chill has been brutally murdered, laid to rest while this heat feeds on everything, itself, and most of all you. Now there is no escape, only judgement, and at least you have solace in that you are getting what you deserve for once. You have nothing to feel guilty over- the only thing you have space in your mind to feel is pain. but you can't

feel anything. you couldn't make yourself feel happy, you couldn't make yourself feel sad, you couldn't truly change yourself, couldn't delude yourself, couldn't do anything. the illusions destroy themselves like a mist that emits sunlight, burning itself away. and what's left is the ugly truth- you, in all that you are. except that

was a lie. You can make yourself feel one thing. Guilt. Guilt, like a sorrow that freezes into solid ice, weighing in the space between your lungs. Its funny how you think about these things while you cross the tundra. People surround you, people you know. They spoke to you through the torch. Except they are far, far away. The torch is not so far away, still separate but approachable, while the people stand silhouetted on the horizon. It is not a lonely isolation. You push one aside- were they that close? Their touch is freezing, and all it tells you is that you need the torch. and so you 

keep going. that's all you can do. you stand up, washing the stinging tears from your face. you look at the scars on your arm- you didn't go that far, not this time, but almost. and then you open the door. there is always another day, another morning to find his mercy new. but tonight you need rest. 

Get some rest.