Accepting the Truth

*You wait there for her to show up, even though it's not possible. She's gone. And guess what, buddy? It's all your fault. You were driving and you were drunk and you were stupid. Yeah, that's right. I called you stupid. I should go as far as calling you a failure. What are you going to do? Huh? I'm not leaving, unless you want to do something drastic. And let me tell you, that special move isn't worth it. You wouldn't make it to heaven with her. You asshole, you really think you belong in heaven with the people that donated money, and loved everyone but themselves? No, you don't. Fucking idiot. *

He sat on the old bridge, listening to the remarks his conscience made.(his very rude one, might I add) He was thinking about her a lot. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because it was one year, to this day he became a failure.

He took a drag of his cigarette, and shook the thoughts out of his head. (As if that helped.) It wasn't his fault, he assured himself. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be home before curfew. She made him rush her home, even though she knew he was tipsy. (A little more than tipsy, but he didn't like to think that he could be drunk after two bottles of beer)

*Don't fucking blame this on the damn girl. It was your fucking fault. Yours. You fucking knew you were drunk, and you fucking drove her home. It was your damn car that swerved into that tree. You were driving. It. Was. Not. Her. Fucking. Fault.*

“Would you stop that!?” He threw the cigarette out into the water, and screamed out in agony. His mind was really getting to him, but he wouldn't admit to being at fault. He wasn't that type of guy.

*No, and you know why? Because you don't get my fucking point. You’re trapped in your fucked up world where everyone's at fault but you, and I'm fucking tired of it. You are one fucked up son of a bitch. Get over yourself. You not a great person at all. You suck. *

“Yeah, I got that. Thank you.” He sarcastically remarked. “It's not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault. You’re wrong.” He muttered, taking out another cigarette from his coat pocket.

“Talking to yourself, Foldge?” A tall, dark hair woman appeared behind him. She was his girlfriend's best friend and sister. She kind of hated him, but there she was.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped at the unwelcome company. He hated the girl right back, and if he was going to have to talk to her, he wouldn't do it nicely.

“Just seeing if you are alright. You ran out of there like her tombstone was on fire.” She laughed a little bit, and sat down next to him, legs dangling off the edge. He had taken his loafers (that were two sizes too small), and threw them into the river earlier, so his bare feet gazed atop the glistening water.

“I'm fine. Jeez.” He took a drag from his cigarette. The girl next to him coughed, but didn’t say anything.

“Sorry.” A wave of silence crashed over them, and he was able to bask in the feeling of loneliness, again. “It’s all you fault you know?” she bluntly stated, throwing a pebble into the river. *Told ya.*

“Shut up.” He said, talking back to both voices.

“No. And you’re a fucking asshole.” *Told ya, again.* “I was trying to be fucking nice to you, even though you’re to blame. I cannot believe you fucking drove into a tree.” She shook her head in disbelief, and stood up. He didn’t acknowledge her movements, and took another drag. “Fucking dickhead.” She muttered to herself as she walked away.

*Now do you believe me? Even her own fucking sister blames you.* “Would you just shut the fuck up? I understood her words, I’m not retarded.” He bitterly tried to remorse himself, although the voice would not have it. *I think you are. Want to know why? Because you fucking believe that it’s your damn fault.* “I will give you any amount of money right now, if you would just stop talking.”

*What the fuck am I going to do with money, Preston? I’m a fucking voice inside your fucked up head. I don’t need your damn money. See, just another reason I think you’re a retard.*

“You have spent a year inside my head, talking to me, swearing at me, railing on me, yelling at me, discriminating me. You can’t just be quiet for one day? It’s the anniversary of her fucking death.” He took another drag, and then threw his cigarette into the water, again. Then, once again, he grabbed another one from his pocket.

*You could die from doing that, you know? Smoking is bad for your lungs, you could get cancer. Lung cancer is a bad way to die.*

“As opposed to every other way I could die?” Preston snipped at the voice. He lit the cigarette, and took a drag.

*Oh, now you’re going smart on me, eh?*

“You’re not Canadian.” The voice inside of him chuckled. *I can take on any nationality I want, bucko. That’s just one of the perks of being an imaginary voice inside your head.*

“So, what’s another perk?” He asked the voice, not really interested, but looking for any way for the derogatory remarks to stop.

*Well, I get to insult you. And…well, I guess that’s it.* Preston smirked at the voice. “So, really, it’s not that great, right? Because ridiculing me could get boring after awhile.”

*Actually, no. Insulting you never gets old. You would think that after a year of insulting you, I would, but no. It’s actually quite a lot of fun.*

“Just my fuckin’ luck.” He took another drag, and threw that cigarette into the water. He took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, only to discover that he smoked them all. “Great. Just great.”

*Maybe smoking was clouding your judgment. Maybe, if you’re not smoking, you’ll understand that it’s all your fault. And to think, maybe you can stop smoking*.

“Going cold turkey is a lot harder than you’d think.” He stared at the empty Camel pack, and sighed.

*You should one of those nicotine patches. I hear they help.* Bewilderment covered the young man’s face. “Where did you hear that? How could you have heard that? You’re a fucking voice.” Preston stood up, wiping away the invisible creases in his light blue button up shirt. He walked across the bridge, where he came across a drug store. He stood in front of the establishment for a few minutes.

*Go in. You can do it. It’s not the place will explode as soon as you walk in. C’mon dude, just walk in.* Even after the voice urged him, the blond still stood there. He moved his arm, resting his hand on the door knob. He sighed. *Dude, what’s your problem? Just open that fucking door, and grab some nicotine gum or patches or something.*

“I can’t go in.” He states, gripping the handle tighter. His hand turned sheer white, but he kept gripping tighter.

*Why the hell not?* It asks bluntly, only annoyance in his voice. “This is where we had our first kiss. She worked here. I can’t.” *You had your first kiss inside of a drug store? Really? That’s probably the stupidest thing you have ever said. And being blond, you’ve said some pretty stupid things.*

Preston would have verbally responded, but instead he opened the door, and walked in. He turned into the pharmaceutical aisle, and looked at the rows and rows of patches and gum.

“What are you doing here?” An older man, maybe around forty, asked. He was tall, and his hair was balding. He held a scowl, on his gray, bearded face.

“I just needed some-“

“I thought you would never come back. The only good thing about that girl dying is that I don’t have to see your face again.” *Can I ask you something? How does everyone hate you? I mean, her family, this guy, her old friends. Who haven’t you pissed off?*

“Well, gee, if I had known…” Preston grabbed a random box off the shelf, sprinted to the front of the store, and bought the item. He ran out of the store, and looked at what he bought. Nicorette gum. “Good enough.” He mumbled, opened the pack, and threw a piece of the gum into his mouth.
* * * *

*Hey man, wake up. The voice said brightly.* Preston still kept sleeping, snuggling his bright green pillow. *Get up…….WAKE UP YOU DOUCHE BAG!!!!!* Preston shot up, banging his head on the bed post. “Shit,” He cursed himself. He lazily looked over at the digital clock and the numbers 3:36 flashed in bright red.

“Why the hell would you wake me up at 3:36?!” He cursed again, remembering that his parents’ room was right next door to his and he was yelling.

*Because I’m bored, and watching you sleep, is not very entertaining .Now, get up, and do something.* Preston mumbled incoherent words, as he pulled himself off of his bed, and threw on a plain black shirt. *Oh, by the way, you snore and talk in your sleep.* Preston growled and stepped out of his room and into the bathroom. *What are you doing?* The voice demanded, worry laced in his voice.

“I gotta piss.” The voice groaned in disgust. He did his business, and walked out of the bathroom and down the hall. He walked down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where he grabbed an apple off the counter. He sat on the counter, and slowly ate his apple. *C’mon, dude! Let’s do something fun! Throw eggs at kids or mug an old lady. Please?!* Preston kept eating the apple, trying to ignore the annoying yammering going on in his head. *Fine, if you don’t talk to me, I’ll sing. Hmm, what song shall annoy you? But right now there's dust on my guitar you fuck and it's all your fault!!!* The voice sings in a high pitch voice.

“All right, all right! I get it! It’s all my fucking fault! Happy?! She died because of me! I killed her! Is that was you wanted to hear?! Huh?!” Preston stood up and flared his arms as he yelled. “Can you leave me alone now? Will you go?!”

Preston heard the voice sigh. *Really? Do you believe it’s your fault, or are you just trying to get rid of me?*

“I was the one driving the car. I was drunk and swerved off the road. She was innocent.” He quietly stated, sorrow lacing his voice. *Finally, he gets it! Good luck you fuck! Hope I never have to talk to you again!* And then, the voice was gone.

“Preston, honey, is everything alright down there? I heard yelling.” His mom stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at her son.

“Yeah, mom. Everything’s fine.” Preston sat down, again, and his mom walked back up the stairs. “It may be my fault, but everything’s going to be okay. As long as that damn voice doesn’t come back.” He muttered, as he stood up, and turned off the light. He walked back into his room, and fell into a deep sleep. That night, he had dreams, dreams of a life without that damn voice.