“You never call me when you’re sober, Tom. You already forgot me. Long ago.” The words were like ice water through my veins; cold unfiltered truth. A lifetime of hurt and disappointment confined to one single sentence. It wasn’t an accusation, only a fact. There was no edge to her voice, no trace of anger or any other emotion at all. It was too late for accusations, it seemed. Accusations demanded an explanation, demanded answers, demanded something. I knew then she had given up hope on there ever being something.
For the longest time life had been a blurred mess for me. On the best of my days I told myself things would inevitably change, and all of this would make sense once I got better. I knew I was lying, deep down I knew that I was always lying, but for a while; when I met her, I felt as though I could. It was like her presence was an act of God, a work of nature, an unrelenting force capable of reaching into my core and bring me to life; release me from my personal hell. It was as if all of a sudden I could feel the world around me once again. I was wrong. Because love does not, and should not, work that way.
Her eyes were daggers through my heart as she stood in the doorway, my hand still stubbornly clenched around the strap of one of her bags, so was hers, but neither of us attempted to pull the piece of luggage away from the other. It was almost as if on some level we both knew that that piece of leather was the only thing connecting us still.
I wanted to say something, anything, but my voice simply left me. I didn’t know what words there could still be. “We were happy once”, maybe. Once was a long time ago. The memory was faint, but it was still there somewhere, hiding within the haze. I could still remember the sun, warm on my back. Somehow it seems colder now. I know there’s nothing wrong with the sun; it’s just me. It has always been me.
Staring into her eyes felt as if time was standing still, every breath taken in those short moments felt like it was my last breath, and at any moment I expected the leather strap to slip away from my grasp, the door to close behind her; then I would breathe no more. What would be the point anyway?
The pale blue light was faint, dull, full of ice. There was nothing left for me in the one place where I could always find some form of kindness, understanding even. “I love you.” I managed to whisper.
“If you love me, then let go of me.” She answered. Ice. Cold, sharp, solid; ice. All that was left within those eyes. All that was left for me. I heaved a lengthy sigh and felt it run its way across my body before finally escaping past my lips. It felt heavy, heavy like the weight of the world threatening to crush me like an insect. I expect her to at least acknowledge how difficult this was, but in all honesty I know what I wanted was just an ounce of pity. Pity was something. We were past the point of there still being something. We were passed the point where anything is better than being alone. I was past the point where I could be better than nothing. I would keep going under, further and further, and dragging her with me. I knew.
Slowly I let the strap of leather slip through my fingers. I closed my eyes not to watch her walk away. I cringed at the sound of that closing door. I crumbled in the face of my own silence. I knew that no matter where I ended up after that, in my mind I would still be there; standing in the hallway, staring at that closed door.
Okay, so, this may possibly be the most depressing thing I’ve ever written on an impulse. It was sort of on an impulse, actually, because this was the product of a writing exercise I used to do a lot when I had just started writing things. I would get my music player, on shuffle (or random/whatever it’s called on your player when songs are mixed up), and push play. I’d listen to the first song that came out, then I would take that artist and try to write a piece containing as many references to their songs as possible. Titles of songs, lines similar to verses I liked or the exact verses if I could manage. It’d always amount to some form of random silliness, but I remembered that today and decided to use that principle to write something actually serious.
If you can’t tell what artist came out on my draw by reading the piece then I must ask what rock you’ve been living under and then urge you to go listen to some Evanescence.
Also I encourage you guys to try out this exercise too, it’s pretty interesting. 😉
If you do, please link back to this post (that way I get a neat little notification) or post a link in the comments ’cause I’d very much love to read what you come up with.