Picturemedrowning's Journals

Happy Birthday

TO MEEEEE :D

This Is My Last Chance

I can taste bitter, stale coffee and the starch of a rushed lunch lingers with it on my tongue. My eyes are tired and sore and the screen of my computer seems to pulsate gently against the warmth of my face. It burns holes in my sleep. I keep my breathing quiet.

"I'm just so angry. All the time," he says. I imagine him rubbing his eyes and then letting his hand drop back to his thigh with a short slapping sound. "And the worst part is I don't even know why. God. I just. I need to know that someone feels. Something."

I blink slowly and feel my eyelashes brush my cheek. I don't know if I'm supposed to reply so I just keep my mouth shut.

"Sometimes I get really lonely. You know. I feel so fucking stupid saying this. I don't even know you but. It's like being kicked in the gut. Over and over and. I just want someone to tell me they feel like this too. Because I'm not insane. I'm just. Lonely."

I can't suppress a tired sigh. It must sound like I don't care. Maybe I don't.

"And sometimes I just want to die, like. You know? But then I think. Wow, who would miss me? What's the point if no one even notices?"

I frown a little. Something shifts in my chest and I straighten in my chair.

"I mean, who would even care? I've never done anything that. Matters. I've never loved anyone, I've never. No one ever loved me. I don't want this to turn into some kind of fucking pity party, but I. need to say it. I've got all these insecurities and it feels like one day I'm just going to fucking snap and I'll lose control and then. What? What would happen?"

I imagine him to slide down onto the floor, and bang the back of his head against the wall. Probably not even feeling it. I imagine him to be young, with dark hair and beautiful lips. The drop-kick curve of his jaw leads me down to the pale skin of his neck - probably rough with 4am stubble - and to the fabric of his shirt. Maybe he isn't wearing one.

"There would be no one here to stop me, if I wanted to do. I don't know. Something stupid. Not even you could stop me. I'm probably talking to myself right now. Not that it matters. I mean, I'll just call again and talk at someone for hours until I can't afford it anymore."

I want to speak but nothing comes. He sounds like a smoker. A singer, maybe.

"Now I feel totally stupid and weak. You know I hoped this would make me feel closer to someone, but it really just makes me realise how far away we are from each other. How far away I am from help. I want to give up."

I feel my mouth open a little but -

"I think I gave up a long time ago. I stopped believing in myself, I guess. And you know, god. What if there is a god? What if I'm going to hell? What if the way I lived my life is just. Wrong?"

A pause.

"I keep asking myself all these stupid questions. It keeps me awake and then I start thinking that maybe I'm driving myself mad. You know? It's hard to even understand that. Why would such a concept even exist? And then. When I am insane, who's gonna be there with me? You?"

I hear his voice crack with a sad laugh. Then I imagine his pale lips dropping from the bitter smile so fast it's like it was never even there at all. Then maybe he closes his eyes - dark grey - and just listens to himself breathing. Listens to the dull thumping in his chest.

"It's like I'm already dead."

There's a pause. Three seconds. I imagine a flash of metal and pressure at his temple. Before I can even breathe the gunshot explodes through the phone and seconds later a flat tone rings through the receiver.

I'm home!

Italy was wonderful, especially Venice. Such an amazing place! But it was really cold, and our bus journey was 22 hours long. Not cool.

I missed you all lots, and here are some photos from the trip :]

Venice is literally the most expensive place on the planet. But the food is gorgeous!

Some guy was standing up in a gondola, singing. And he fell out into the water. Very funny.

Although the water is disgusting, so I do feel a bit sorry for him!

Anyway. I'll post a few more photos in the next few days, and I'll catch up with everyone and everything as soon as I can.

Love you all x

Some important thoughts...or just a massive rant.

This is driving me insane. Why, when I most need it, can I not write? Or draw? Or take a decent photograph? Iâ�™m not fishing for compliments here; I just need to say something. Itâ�™s just as well I never joked myself into the fucking delusion that Iâ�™d be able to do any of those things for a living.

There are thousands of things I want to say, but when it comes to it, none of them seem to really exist. That sounds weird, but its how I feel.

Iâ�™m not happy with anything I write. It has to be epic and intense and extreme otherwise itâ�™s bullshit. But then it gets old, and its clichÃ© and I cringe at the words, but write them anyway.

I donâ�™t feel like Iâ�™m good at any of this anymore. I thought that maybe after stuff at college cooled down a bit; Iâ�™d be able to focus on writing. But Iâ�™ve tried and tried and nothing is working. Itâ�™s gone beyond writerâ�™s block now. Itâ�™s like the creativity has justâ�¦gone. What happens when I give up? Will that be it? The thing I love most just thrown away.

But to add to this I donâ�™t even feel like Iâ�™m part of my own body. If you can picture that, just for a secondâ�¦it doesnâ�™t feel like I just wrote all those lines, itâ�™s like I canâ�™t remember ever being anywhere, properly. Like Iâ�™m floating above myself in some fucking dream world. I get so lost in books and films and justâ�¦thoughts that nothing else really matters, as long as I have that place where anything is possible.

A boy I know was in a car accident at the weekend, and now heâ�™s in intensive care, maybe paralysed. But I donâ�™t feel anything for him. Thatâ�™s fucking awful, I know. But I canâ�™t help it. As I said, right now, somehow nothing else matters.

These feelings of detachment make me want to write, but oh, hey. I canâ�™t.

Nothing thatâ�™s good enough for you guys, anyway. I consider you to be my most important audience, so youâ�™ll be disappointed to know that everything Iâ�™ve shown you is the best I can do. And I hate it.

Yeah, I bet youâ�™re wishing you hadnâ�™t bothered now. I am.

Insane

Life was dark.

I bite my lip and close my eyes tight as the rush bursts along my veins and crackles like electricity into my head.

It was this place. This deep, grey place. The buzzing in my head would keep me awake and I wondered if I was the only one in the world that felt these things.

I think I'm drowningâ�¦

Asphyxiatedâ�¦

Too many days passed and I didnâ�™t even know if I was breathing. I donâ�™t think I cared. The ceiling grew faces and laughs turned to silent frowns. Disapproval turned to disgust.

Is this what life really feels like?

I wanna break this spellâ�¦
You've createdâ�¦

Thoughts went round and round in my head until I forgot myself. I was nothing but air. Wishful thinking, you might say.

Nothing makes any sense. My thoughts are disjointed and everything that made me happy has faded into darkness.

I hate everything I do, I hate who I am and Iâ�™ve got nothing left to say, but I force it anyway because I feel like I need to.

I need your acceptance because without you, I donâ�™t even exist.

I pretended that I was real, just for a while.

You're something beautifulâ�¦
A contradictionâ�¦

â�œWhy donâ�™t you love me?â�

â�œBecause thereâ�™s nothing to love. Youâ�™re a hopeless case.â�

The words cut like blades, but I was so used to the feeling I almost welcomed it.

â�œBut I love youâ�¦â�

â�œStop saying that. You donâ�™t even know what the word means. Everything you say is justâ�¦fucking bullshit.â�

It was a new feeling, this conflict.

I finally had someone else to hate.

I wanna play the gameâ�¦
I want the frictionâ�¦

â�œIâ�™m trying to tell you how I feel.â�

He shuffles his feet and his tattered trainers scrape on the pavement like sandpaper. His shoulders hunch and he closes his eyes a little against the cold wind. The air brings folds of dark hair around his face, but he doesnâ�™t push them away.

You will be the death of meâ�¦
You will be the death of meâ�¦

â�œI want to die where no one can see me.â�

â�œHmm?â�

â�œLike. I donâ�™t want anyone to find me. I want to be eaten by wolves or. Something.â�

â�œWhy?â�

â�œI donâ�™t want you to come to my funeral.â�

He kisses my fingers, one by one and smiles a slow, beautiful, broken smile.

â�œI wonâ�™t.â�

Bury itâ�¦
I won't let you bury itâ�¦
I won't let you smother itâ�¦
I won't let you murder itâ�¦

â�œYouâ�™re getting ill.â�

I swallow again and stare, red-eyed and hateful, at his bare back.

â�œHey,â� I whisper. â�œI can see your bones.â�

Our time is running outâ�¦
Our time is running outâ�¦

All the mirrors are broken, because I canâ�™t stand the sight of myself. He pinned blankets over the windows last night so I donâ�™t know if itâ�™s daytime or not. Iâ�™m too far gone. Itâ�™s too late.

You can't push it undergroundâ�¦
You can't stop it screaming outâ�¦

â�œYou are the most beautiful person Iâ�™ve ever seen,â� he whispers. Please. Let me go.â�

I wanted freedomâ�¦
Bound and restrictedâ�¦
I tried to give you upâ�¦
But I'm addictedâ�¦

â�œWhatever. I donâ�™t care.â� I speak but it feels like thereâ�™s ice in my throat. I make sure the ropes are too tight, and I make sure the blindfold is too thick and as I close the door on him I feel a smile fall over my face.

â�œPlease. Just let me out,â�

His poor voice is muffled by the walls and soon it is lost in the flickering crackle of flames.

How did it come to this?

Note to self..

Don't start something that I have no fucking time to finish.

I'll Be Your Sunset [1]

There isnâ�™t a day that goes past where I donâ�™t think about him. I close my eyes and remember the course skin of his fingertips, scratchy from where he played his guitar too hard. I almost remember the feeling in my stomach when he laughed, a slight clenching of the muscles, a race of the heart. Yes. Even now, I can almost smell the sweet musky aroma of the skin between his shoulder bladesâ�¦

I let myself lapse into a reverie, all too aware of the pain that will return when my thoughts are shattered, and I come crashing back to reality at breakneck speed. Sometimes, I want to fall asleep and never wake up. I want to live in my dream world forever where everything is right, and the world isnâ�™t inside-out and my heart doesnâ�™t wrench with every little prickle of hope that comes soaring my wayâ�¦where Iâ�™m with him. And heâ�™s alive.

â�œHereâ�™s toâ�¦the New York city l-lights. Andâ�¦hereâ�™s toâ�¦the sunsetâ�¦â� I hear the words falling from my lips in an alcohol induced slur and cringe inwardly. I hold the bottle of clear liquid up above my head, pointing it wildly towards the window where orange and white and yellow and green and red merge in a whirling mess of colour, staining the backs of my eyes. â�œAnd hereâ�™s toâ�¦the-whoa. Floorboardsâ�¦god I love the f-flâ�¦â� with my nose pushed into the bare wood, I blink back tears and try to sit up again, my head feeling too heavy to lift. â�œw-what the fuckâ�¦â�

A shrill ringing.

â�œS-stop that.â�

Itâ�™s the phone. Get up.

â�œNrrghh.â�

I yank the receiver off the wall and slump down again, straining the wire. A passing thought. Get a cordless phone.

â�œMm?â�

â�œJess. Jessica. Itâ�™s me, David.â�

â�œYeah?â�

â�œAre you sober?â�

What do you think.

â�œYes.â�

â�œPlease promise me youâ�™ll stay in your apartment tonightâ�¦donâ�™t wander off again, I donâ�™t want to have to call the cops at fu-â�

â�œWhy are you calling me?â�

â�œBecause Iâ�™m worried about you. And because I call you every night.â�

â�œYeah well. You donâ�™t have to.â�

â�œGo to bed. Please?â�

â�œMm.â�

â�œGo get some sleep.â�

â�œGoodnight.â�

I hang up; or rather throw the phone at the wall until I hit the call button. I know he means well but I just donâ�™t need that right now. I donâ�™t deserve it, in the least.

It feels like my joints are full of broken glass every time I move, and the journey to my bed is epic and unnecessarily long. Several things, including the coffee table stand in my way and I can feel the bruises on my shins blossoming already.

Crawling under the covers, I feel darkness creep in, pressing down on my eyelids, binding my limbs.

I never used to be scared of the dark.

Knock.

Itâ�™s too early to be opening my eyes.

The air is too cold, the other side of the bed is stiff and un-creased and I feel more lonely than usual.

I hit the coffee table again on my way through the apartment.

Shinache Headache. Fuckingeverythingache.

Pulling the door open, half-closed eyes: â�œyeah?â�

â�œA parcel for a Mrsâ�¦Jessica Hunter.â�

â�œMiss. Itâ�™s Missâ�¦and notâ�¦â� the FedEx guy doesnâ�™t hear me, but passes over a long, rectangle-shaped package. Oh god. My mother has sent me flat-pack furniture. You know, I bet its fucking shelving.

â�œThis is for youâ�¦sign here please?â�

â�œUmmâ�¦I didnâ�™t order anythingâ�¦â� mumble. Stop mumbling at helpful strangers.

â�œWell then, I guess itâ�™s a gift.â� Smile. My god, youâ�™re so efficient and happy and itâ�™s so early and Iâ�™m so hung-overâ�¦

The package is half as tall as I am, and slightly wider. Itâ�™s impossibly light for anything decent to be hidden there, so I pass it off asâ�¦I donâ�™t know what. Air. Itâ�™s probably a joke.

Or someone sent me anthrax as a birthday present.

Whatever it is, I lean it against the wall, noticing the weighty thump it makes against the plaster. As if it weighs a ton.

â�œOkay, have a nice day!â�

I nod as he takes his clipboard back. â�œWill do.â�

Closing the door behind him, it feels suddenly as though someone has clamped their hands over my ears. I can hear a faint whistling, and the room seems to spin. I grab the wall with one hand and blink a few times. It passes as quickly as it comes, and I put it down to having too much gin in my bloodstream. Dizzy moment. Head rush.

Turning away from the package and the door, I take a few steps towards the kitchen. But I have to stop. I donâ�™t know why but my body wonâ�™t let me go any further.

Open it.

I turn back and grab the package with both hands, again surprised at how light it feels. I place it on the dining table and scout the edges for a note. Or a name. Finding none, I run my fingers over it for a seam or join in the brown paper that binds it. Impatient, I scrub and scratch at it with my nails until a small rip appears in the top, and I push my fingers inside, tearing the paper from the box.

Itâ�™s made of heavyweight white cardboard, tied with a red ribbon. Looks expensive. Tearing this off too, I pull the long lid free and peek inside.

Meters of soft, black strips of silk meet my eyes, and I drop the lid to the floor with a soft clatter before delving my hands down into it, pulling the strands away and leaving them to float through the air like feather-light ribbons.

Frantic and excited, suddenly fuelled by curiosity.

I hit something. Dusting away the silk shreds: â�œwhat the hellâ�¦â�

Itâ�™s a leg. And I almost drop it.

But somehow itâ�™s warm and I donâ�™t want to drop it. I want to run my fingers over it and test the smooth, rubbery material under the light.

Placing it on the table, I go slower now. An arm. A perfectly-formed hand with large almost square, but delicate fingers. Familiar. Another leg. A beautifully sculpted, perfectly muscular torsoâ�¦

Someone sent me a mannequin.

I stop.

I donâ�™t want to see its head. Or itâ�™s face.

A thousand questions scream through my mind but before everything else, put it together.

Collisions Behind Closed Doors sequel [Chapter4]

My brother has been sick almost ever since I can remember. Itâ�™s something Iâ�™ve grown up with, something thatâ�™s nearly comfortable to me. Our family was tight, and we cared about Gerard as best we could, all the time trying to give him a halfway normal life.

When I was ten, we spent Christmas Eve sleeping on the seats of a waiting room in some cold, dreary hospital, surrounded by fake Santas and flashy lights that mad me feel sick, just waiting for Gerard to come out and tell us he was okay. The day after, no one could hide their anxious expressions, mom couldnâ�™t hide her tears, and no one would say a word.

Iâ�™ll never forget that Christmas.

We are three years apart, but it never feels like that. We are the closest brothers, best friends. I can look in his eyes and know what heâ�™s thinking. Know that heâ�™s scared. Know that heâ�™s lonely. And he is the same with me.

â�œHey, Mikey. Are you asleep?â�

Suddenly weâ�™re back home in our room, trying to ignore the sounds of our parents fighting. Iâ�™m almost fifteen years old, but I feel so much older.

My eyes snapped open, but there was nothing to see. A strip of light shined from under the door but it was swallowed by the darkness, leaving me clutching my sheets close to my chest and tucking my toes into the blankets, just in case.

â�œNo, are you?â�

I heard him laugh quietly and shift onto his side so he was facing me.

â�œAre you okay?â�

I blinked at the gloomy ceiling and took a breath.

â�œI guess.â� I always love the way that in total darkness your voice becomes this almost visible being, floating in the air above you as you speak. â�œAre you?â�

â�œYeah, of course I am.â�

I donâ�™t know why he lied to me. We both knew what was happening to him, and we both knew he was getting worse, and we both knew our parents couldnâ�™t afford the treatment, and stillâ�¦

â�œDid that boy beat you up again?â� he asked with casual anxiousness. My stomach flipped inside me and for a few seconds I squeezed my eyes shut.

â�œNo, I havenâ�™t seen him in school for weeks.â� The lies just kept coming, it seemed.

â�œOh,â�

And now I think back on it, I almost laugh. That boy was the very one that stole my brotherâ�™s heart and mind and entire soul. How things changeâ�¦

â�œHave you seen Max recently? He misses you.â�

Gerard sighed and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling too. â�œYeah. I kinda miss him butâ�¦you know.â�

â�œMm.â�

Truth was, I didnâ�™t have a fucking clue. I had no problem that my brother liked guys as well as girls, maybe even a little more, but. I didnâ�™t know the workings of a relationship like that. It was violent and messy and a little cathartic, for him anyway. He used to drink a lot to get through it, maybe even do drugs. But hey. That was his call and I trusted him enough to not have to say anything.

â�œDo you think youâ�™ll ever see him again?â� I donâ�™t know where the question came from, but it was too late.

â�œUh, maybe.â� He was uncomfortable, I could tell. â�œBut maybe not. I donâ�™t know.â�

Max had done something a few weeks ago that made Gerard a frantic mess of drinking and smoking and holding up in his basement for days at a time. From what I figured, they hadnâ�™t spoken since.

â�œIf you donâ�™t want to talk about it then, thatâ�™s cool,â� I half whispered.

â�œn-no, itâ�™s fine. I just havenâ�™tâ�¦figured stuff out yet.â�

He fell silent for a few minutes and I almost thought heâ�™d fallen asleep.

â�œâ�¦Mikey?â�

â�œMm?â�

â�œDo you ever wish I wasnâ�™t your brother?â�

â�œâ�¦What?â� I sat up, propping myself on my elbow. â�œNo way, dude. Of course not.â� I stared into the darkness before leaning towards my bedside table and switching the lamp on. â�œWhy would I ever wish that?â� squinting from the sudden light, I felt around for my glasses and put them on.

â�œGerard.â�

â�œIâ�™m justâ�¦god, it sucks, you knowâ�¦? All this pressure on you. I wish you didnâ�™t have toâ�¦put up with meâ�¦â�

â�œHey, listen. Gerard.â� He was turned away from me, facing the wall. â�œGeeâ�¦câ�™mon. Youâ�™re the best brother and best friend Iâ�™ll ever hope to have. Donâ�™t put yourself out like thisâ�¦â�

â�œâ�¦Iâ�™m sorry. I. I shouldnâ�™t have said anything. Donâ�™t worry.â� A little fear thudded in my heart as I watched him wipe his cheek with the back of his hand.

â�œGerardâ�¦please tell me if somethingâ�™s wrongâ�¦â�

â�œâ�¦go to sleep, Mikey.â�

I turned the light off, but stayed awake for hours.

Two days later, mom found my brother unconscious on the bathroom floor, an empty bottle of prescription pills still clasped in his hand. The flashing lights of the ambulance lit up our faces in harsh contrast with the darkness of night, and the neighbours came to watch. When they slammed the doors shut, I remember sinking to the ground and clutching my knees to my chest, unable to breathe.

After what felt like days in the emergency room, the doctor said theyâ�™d pumped the toxins out of his stomach and he would be fine. I felt tears of relief sting my eyes and ran to the bathroom where I threw up and cried for an hour straight.

I donâ�™t think Iâ�™ve ever forgiven him for that.

When frank came along, it took a while to adjust. It was weird. Plain old fucking weird.

And yet, Gerard hadnâ�™t been happier. Ever. They were hardly ever apart that summer, and when they were, Gerard wouldnâ�™t stop talking about him. His test results were getting better and his behaviour was showing it too. No more mood swings, no more drinking. The invigorated, fresh look on his face, the colour in his cheeks, the light in his eyes, they all pointed to one thing. Frank was the person that could save my brotherâ�™s life.

Just a week ago, when we started getting calls from Gerardâ�™s school saying that he was missing; it was just like the time he tried to kill himself. I felt it all over again. The gripping feeling in my chest, the anxiety eating away at my insides.

But then we found out that Frank was with him. And suddenly the worry disappeared, like I somehow knew he was okay. That they were both going to make it.

We drove to the hospital in near silence, punctuated by my motherâ�™s mutterings, â�œI canâ�™t believe thisâ�¦how could heâ�¦?â�

When we got up to Gerardâ�™s room and I saw Frank, my pulse jumped a little. He looked bad. Really awful. For a second I wondered if I was wrong, and if we were too late. Then my parents started yelling at him and all I could do was watch. His eyes clouded over with regret and fear and he just stood there and took it all. Heâ�™d lost a lot of weight and was unhealthily pale; like the ink in his tattoos had just slipped out of his skin. It was almost a whole different person.

After theyâ�™d gone I was left there with him, and I didnâ�™t know what to do.

â�œIâ�™m sorry.â� he said weakly. â�œYou know I am.â�

I nodded and felt sadness stab at my heart. He meant it.

â�œIâ�™m sorry too. â�œ

There was so much left to say, but I knew that wasnâ�™t the time. So I looked down and just walked away, leaving him on his own.

He was broken, and I knew it. But he wasn't mine to fix.

Collisions Behind Closed Doors sequel [Chapter3,part2]

The bus engine groaned as it took me away from the hospital, a dull roaring in the back of my head. It was raining again and torrents of grey water gushed down the glass, blurring the dark world beyond and making the streetlamps burst with painfully bright light. It felt like everything around me had splintered into a million pieces, and later I knew I would be angry but at that moment, there was nothing. I was still biting my nails, only knowing to stop they were smeared with the orange-brown stain of blood.

I felt sick.

I was shaking.

There was a weight on my chest and I just couldnâ�™t fucking breathe-

The bus lurched to a stop and nausea rose in my throat. I stood up and stumbled to the front, muttering thanks to the driver before stepping out in to the rain. I could walk from here. And I needed the air.

I wasnâ�™t glad to be back in this town. The sight of grand houses and iron gates didnâ�™t entice a flutter of reassurance in my stomach, it made me pull my hood up and shove my hands into my pockets, staring down at the sidewalk as I watched my feet fall one in front of the other. The smell of industry and pollution was washed from the air into the gutter in streams of murky water, collecting in puddles that splashed over my Etnies and soaked into my jeans.

I passed the route I used to take to my old high school, but didnâ�™t feel like reminiscing. It just made everything hurt so much more. I wanted to be back inside the cage of my bedroom where I could bury my face in a pillow and scream until my throat got sore. Where no one would care. No one would ask me if I was okay. No one would worry.

Cars driven by washed-out office workers rushed past on the wet streets, hurrying to get home to their TV dinners and whiny kids and matching kitchen sets and American Dream lifestyles. Theyâ�™re in the wrong fucking town for that shit.

I almost laughed.

At least half an hour had passed, and the rain had soaked through my hoodie and jeans by the time I reached my front door. But I didnâ�™t feel the cold.

All the lights were off and my parentsâ�™ cars were gone from the driveway. At least I wouldnâ�™t be disturbed. There was a key under the doormat and I let myself in to the cold, dark house.

I didnâ�™t bother with lights as I staggered to the kitchen and threw my hoodie onto the breakfast table. There was note on the fridge.

Frank,

If you come home for your holiday weâ�™ve gone skiing with your aunt Christina. Weâ�™ll be gone for a month, and will be back before the end of February.

Donâ�™t have any parties.

Love, mom.

Ps. Your father is still angry.

A little relief spread through me at the thought of being alone for so long. I had almost two months to wallow in misery before I would have to move out and get a job and try my fucking hardest to get my life back.

The answer phone was beeping in the hall. I listened to the messages. Momâ�™s hairdresser. Someone from my fatherâ�™s business. Mom. â�œFrank, where the hell are you?â� and again. â�œFrank, if you come home and get this, can you call us?â�

I figured it would be about me running away with Gerard and us assaulting, or nearly killing a motel owner.

In that case, it could wait.

My hair hung limp and wet in my eyes, and I dripped rainwater all over the floor as I wandered to the gold-framed mirror by the door. I rubbed my eyes a little and wiped the rainwater from my face, turning to see how wet my shirt had got and ignoring how thin I now was.

Thankfully there was enough beer in the fridge to get through the night, so I opened a bottle and headed towards the kitchen table, collapsing into a chair and taking a large sip, feeling the liquor fill my empty stomach. There was silence.

And that was it. There was nothing left to distract me.

There was nothing other to do than just think about it; truly let it all in. And once I started I couldnâ�™t stop. I kept picturing the look on Gerardâ�™s face, kept feeling the crushing in my lungs, the burning in my stomach. Over and over and fucking over. Iâ�™m sorry.

I drained half the bottle and slammed it down too hard.

That second of realisation that brought everything to a grinding halt was replaying in my head, all the colours too bright, all the sounds too loud. It was the perfect nightmare. The ultimate fear.

I finished the bottle. Got another. Wished I had some cigarettes left. Had a shot of vodka. One of gin. Another beer. More gin, this time from the bottle. My throat burned. The hunger was gone, butâ�¦

It was still there.

That moment.

Gerard with his hair a tangled mess and eyes like pools of spilt ink. That little shake of his head, the tremble of his perfect lips. Those fucking words. My god, I just didnâ�™t get it. And that made me smile. After everything, I still didnâ�™t get him. He was fucking unpredictable and stupid and irrational and scared and lonely and my entire fucking world and he just didnâ�™t want me anymore. Without him I had nothing. I was nothing. The full strength of it hit me in an agonising wave, and I felt like I was going to drown under the pressure

â�œFuck!â� I threw my beer bottle down in frustration and it slipped to the floor where it smashed, shards sticking up like broken bones. I groaned and kicked the table leg, gritting my teeth together.

Burying my face in my hands and closing my eyes, I tried to calm the anger. But it wouldnâ�™t go away. I could see it all; hear it, almost fucking taste it. Those words and the tears and that lookâ�¦

I stood up and pushed everything on the table to the floor, sending a vase hurtling into the tiles. An ear-splitting smash pierced the silence and my thoughts like the boom of thunder. My fingers were shaking as I pushed the hair out of my eyes. The fire still wasnâ�™t gone.

Feeling the alcohol inside me flow into my bloodstream, I turned and swung my fist at the wall with a cry of fury.

This was unfair.

Again and again.

I didnâ�™t understand.

It was gone.

Everything we worked for was lost.

What if he didn't make it through Chemo-

I fucking loved him-

He said he loved me-

My whole arm ached to the bone and my knuckles felt like they might explode. The cuts from earlier opened up and left a bloody imprint on the beige paint, and one of them looked like a â�œGâ�.

Breathing hard, I collapsed back into my chair and gripped the edges of the table to stop the room from tilting so much. A kaleidoscope of colours burst behind my eyes, pulsing and swirling and popping with each beat of my heart.

I didnâ�™t notice the tears until I tasted the salt on my lips.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the voices and feeling of falling and spinning in my head.

â�œâ�¦I still love you.â�

Collisions Behind Closed Doors sequel [Chapter3,part2]

I felt sick.

I was shaking.

There was a weight on my chest and I just couldnâ�™t fucking breathe-

I almost laughed.

At least half an hour had passed, and the rain had soaked through my hoodie and jeans by the time I reached my front door. But I didnâ�™t feel the cold.

I didnâ�™t bother with lights as I staggered to the kitchen and threw my hoodie onto the breakfast table. There was note on the fridge.

Frank,

If you come home for your holiday weâ�™ve gone skiing with your aunt Christina. Weâ�™ll be gone for a month, and will be back before the end of February.

Donâ�™t have any parties.

Love, mom.

Ps. Your father is still angry.

I figured it would be about me running away with Gerard and us assaulting, or nearly killing a motel owner.

In that case, it could wait.

And that was it. There was nothing left to distract me.

I drained half the bottle and slammed it down too hard.

That second of realisation that brought everything to a grinding halt was replaying in my head, all the colours too bright, all the sounds too loud. It was the perfect nightmare. The ultimate fear.

It was still there.

That moment.

Feeling the alcohol inside me flow into my bloodstream, I turned and swung my fist at the wall with a cry of fury.

This was unfair.

Again and again.

I didnâ�™t understand.

I fucking loved him-

He said he loved me-

My whole arm ached to the bone and my knuckles felt like they might explode. The cuts from earlier opened up and left a bloody imprint on the beige paint, and one of them looked like a â�œGâ�.

I didnâ�™t notice the tears until I tasted the salt on my lips.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the voices and feeling of falling and spinning in my head.

â�œâ�¦I still love you.â�

Picturemedrowning's Journals

Happy Birthday

This Is My Last Chance

I'm home!

Some important thoughts...or just a massive rant.

Insane

Note to self..

I'll Be Your Sunset [1]

Collisions Behind Closed Doors *sequel* [Chapter4]

Collisions Behind Closed Doors *sequel* [Chapter3,part2]

Collisions Behind Closed Doors *sequel* [Chapter3,part2]

Collisions Behind Closed Doors sequel [Chapter4]

Collisions Behind Closed Doors sequel [Chapter3,part2]

Collisions Behind Closed Doors sequel [Chapter3,part2]