A Scream Into The Void by Surrah698
- Words From A Neurodivergent Survivor, A True Story
May 9th–10th, 2025.
Somewhere between the ashtray olympics and sidewalk grief theatre, I respawned.
Not healed. Not whole. Just… alive.
I don’t know how to explain what happened, and I probably never will.
So here’s the redacted version, coded for public consumption and private screams:
– Dodge the fists.
– Dodge the pepper spray.
– Dodge your own sobs.
– Wrap the charger cord around your ventilation tube, not out of drama, but because it’s the only way to silence the grief machine's loudness to not summon the Grendel.
- Handed pleasant abandonment with a whiff capsaicin.
– Be gifted a sidewalk as your sanctuary and your things as a free yardsale for your legacy.
– Watch your only companion—furry, small, terrified—die quietly in your lap while the world just keeps spinning around you. Perfected the art of being reluctantly invisible on that sidewalk.
– Get rescued by the same hand that held the chaos. Again. And again. And again.
– Get handed another woman’s life, in the form of a purse grenade, like it was interchangeable.
– Feel a rage so patient it waits for a red light before exploding.
– Get back in your body long enough to reclaim your soul on the way out.
I survived. Somehow.
Wade Wilson didn't.
I carry that moment like a haunted charm in my chest.
I have trauma soup sloshing in my skull.
My nervous system is a powerline in a hurricane.
They’ll say:
“But you look fine.”
“You're so strong."
“You're so naive.”
And I’ll say:
I am. I am all of that. And also broken in places you’ll never see.
This isn’t a cry for help.
This is a survivor’s growl.
A testimony for the neurospicy, late-diagnosed, system-abandoned, emotionally flammable crew.
I survived that hotel.
I survived that body.
I survived them.
And if I disappear tomorrow, let this be known:
I screamed through the hole,
and the void blinked first.
The void is watching.