a thirst for air to keep from drowning in the city smoke and sadness.
bottles piling up in your bedroom, glinting emerald in the starved light, like stained glass in a church window. you sleep, you drink, you laugh until all the punchlines are lost on you.
"i'm going out," your roommate says, aftershave and shower gel wafting in from the doorway. "want to join?"
you say nothing, shake your head. even being here, in this room, with another breathing, living soul feels lonely. you dont understand anymore. you wish you could understand.
"you sure?"
"i'm sure."
he closes the door, leaves. you bury your face in your hands like a kid, snotty nosed and red faced, crying with no remorse. it hurts to hurt this much, it hurts to hurt like this and not know why.
your mom calls. voice shrill and cracking, "please come home,"
"no." you say back, eyes lidded and sleepy. "i'm fine, really."
your mom cries over the phone and you feel nothing. you lie there, crashing and numb, counting the cracks on the ceiling like stars. she cries and she cries and she cries, and you feel nothing.
it's not my fault. it's not my fault. i've been doomed from the start.
you stay in bed and watch movie after movie. you watch the notebook, you watch notting hill, you watch titanic. you hate them all.
they're just faces, pretending, and none of it really matters anyway.
you stay in bed and stare at the wall. you drink and forget. forget people and places, forget names and faces, forget the feeling of staying afloat, choose to sink. choosing to sink the boat.
fuck jack, you think. fuck rose too.
"i made pasta," your roommate says, tray in his hands, eyes shining in the half light of your room. "you should eat."
"i can't," you stare at him without blinking. "i won't."
he says nothing else, he knows not to, just leaves silently. you hear weeping in the hallway. you don't get up. you don't care like you used to.
life passes. you are submerged in an endless dream.
your roommate forces you out of bed, drags you to the kitchen table, and pours you milk into a bowl of cheerios. you stare down, you don't know what to do.
"i need sugar," you say, small. you haven't talked in two weeks. "is there any sugar?"
he places a bowl of white sugar on the table, sits down and watches you pour sugar on your soggy cheerios. a strange mix of grief and anger ingests his face. there are wrinkles on his forehead that weren't there before.
"go on," he nods his head. "eat."
you pick up the spoon, swirl it around and round and listen to it clink against the bowl. you lift it to your mouth, and take a bite. chew. swallow.
"good?"
you nod and try not to cry. the milk turns sour in your mouth. your body feels limp. extinct.
"you okay?"
you wail, sob. your shoulders shake with inconsolable grief. he tries to wrap an arm around your shoulder, but you only cry louder.
"i'm sorry," is all you can manage through the tears.
your mother, blurred and indistinct, "oh, how did this happen?"
you want to say you made me this way. i am you, and you are me. you did this.
in scrawled writing in the back of a notebook, i'm in a dream, and i'm going to wake up. i'm not here right now. i'm not here.