'You wouldn’t know how I felt about you if I wrote it on a wall. You were the only thing keeping me alive, and now I’m dead.'
Your words echoed in the back of my mind. I wake up in a gasp for breath, gaining consciousness as my eyes open wide to the dark emptiness of three in the morning. It was raining outside. Tiny droplets were resting on my windows, and with each stroke of lightning, they cast shadows upon my walls. It took me a while to realize that I was shivering. When I reached over to grab a blanket, however, all I caught was chilly air. They had fallen on the floor, and now I was selfishly using this to distract me from the thoughts that had haunted me in my sleep.
I settled back into my bed, frowning heavily upon the expansive white of the ceiling, remembering our latest of conversations. Things had always seemed to go in circles between us, back and forth until I felt attacked and you felt empty. Until I was ready to cry and you were simply throwing words around for such a reaction. I suppose you were as tired of this as I was, but I could never tell if our thoughts were so similar or so different.
What I want to know is which is worse: recklessness or manipulation? We knew enough about both of them to make things miserable between us, and yet, we couldn’t stay away from each other. I was pushing forward and you were slowly tugging back, driving thoughts into my head, like spikes through my heart, insisting that you were only showing me how you were hurting inside. I’ll say that most of it wasn’t even my fault. You said that God hated you, that he wanted you dead. You were just giving up. You didn’t realize that God simply wanted you to realize that you were still alive. You should be grateful. Yet, I’ve never woken up choking on my own blood. Still, you survived. Everything should be fine, now. Maybe I’m just being optimistic.
Things felt empty, staring into this eternity. It would change eventually, when the alarm on the dresser would sound. When the world starts to spin again. When I crash out of bed and slip obtusely back into existence. Like the circle piece of a clueless kid being shoved into the square cutout, because everybody knows that it won't fit.
Maybe I am simply being melodramatic. I have an extraordinary talent for doing so. Still, somehow this feels justified. For once, it seems I have a sufficient reason for worry and pessimism.
I bet you understand that when you’re numb enough, you don’t even remember getting dressed or brushing your teeth. I’m just starting to realize how you can magically arrive where you’re supposed to be, fully ready, having no idea how you got there. Well, how did I get here, now?
This is where the beautiful scarf starts to unravel.
This is where the creator dropped a stitch.
This is where it all comes crashing down.
This is where you walk up to me, hysterical, screaming, “Well, I hope you’re happy, now!”
Then you show me the pictures the police took an hour ago. When the alarm on the dresser started wailing and millions, minus one, woke up for a new day.
All I can see is the ‘I Love You’ scrawled in blood on the wall, crimson in the camera’s flash.
All I can see is the hole is your head, the gun at your side.
All I can see is the world ending with one last breath, one last gasp.
And you’re gone.
'You wouldn’t know how I felt about you if I wrote it on a wall. You were the only thing keeping me alive, and now I’m dead.'
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