Is That All?

(Sweat runs down my face as I pull the weight of my body up by my arms. Lean, tense muscles glistening with moisture and scarring. I'm not sure how many pull ups I've done. The repetition should be boring, but instead, I find it focuses me. The mechanical movements of the machine that is my body only serve to drive my urges further. I'm not sure how long I've been working out today. I drop from the pull up bar and wipe my forehead. I'm sweating vodka. Time to replenish. I leave my room and head to the kitchen table. With a quick movmement of my thumb the cap twists off and spins on the table. I drink deeply. I gulp down as much as I can before gasping and spilling some on my sports bra. Oh well, I was gonna smell like booze eventually anyway. I light a cigarette and take a seat.)

Summer: Is that it Kristin? Is that everything?

(I take another drag and exhale a cloud of smoke while flicking the ashes off my smoke. Some of them flitter about and end up on the table.)

Summer: You're worried about titles? About a little trinket that you can wear? About accolades? That's your big motivation? That's what you fight for? Pathetic...

(I don't even bother finishing my cigarette. Instead I just ash it out and push the ashtray away from me. Her motivation, her big drive in life is such a waste. Materialistic little b**ch. Empty concept of life.)

Summer: You're garbage wrapped in skin. You're a waste of life. There is no point to your existence. If all you live for is materialistic toys, gold, star stickers on your chart, then you are worthless. What does that make you? You're supposed to be something fans can look up to? You're supposed to be the good person in this? The hero? Where's your true goals? Your morals? Your conscience? You don't have them do you? It's just you and your desire for attention. Your hunger for something originally designed to hold up a person's pants. Some role model. Some hero. What does all this even make you?

(I know what it makes her. It makes her nothing. I brush some of my crimson hair from my face with my hand. I can feel my anger swelling within. I have no pity for this gold hoarding creature. For this wretched, covetous urchin. Only hatred. Something she brings out of me in abundance. It's nice. She's the kind of trash the people of this world cheer. Someone who's only reason for doing something is to get trophies and hold onto them with their dying breath. Yet I'm the one who supposedly has no values. The world is diseased. I'm the cure.)

Summer: You think your reasons for doing this are more valid. As if wanting to hold onto a title makes you somehow more motivated or dangerous. I don't care about your stupid belt. I don't care about your self-centered desires for recognition and adulation. I don't care about your little soap opera life. I'm not here to follow the rules. I'm not here to play a game. I'm not here for adulation, or cheers, or trophies.

(All the muscles in my upper body tighten as the emptiness begins to leak from the chamber inside my chest. I feel it push into my eyes. I've walked the line between control and frenzy many times. I can see the red sheen trying to gloss over my vision. I hold it back for now. Soon I won't have to.)

Summer: I'm not here to wrestle you Kristin Kross. I'm here to hurt you...