Angels Deserve to Die
Shattered.
It had been a few days since the funeral. Friends had come and gone from my house with expressions full of worry and…almost a sense of longing. Longing for what? For me to be…well, me again? I guess they wanted the old me back; the person I was before I got that phone call, but I think a good portion of me was buried six feet under.
It took me a few days to feel anything at all. I was a thoughtless, emotionless zombie, in all honesty. And then, on the fourth day, I felt it, something that took me by surprise. I couldn’t suppress it. It wouldn’t go away. That’s all I wanted, crumpled up on my bathroom floor, just to be a zombie again.
But the endless rage was just that. Endless.
No one had come to see me. The last time someone had come to see me, I was still a zombie. I was partially grateful for that – no one would have to suffer at the hands of my irrational fury – but at the same time, selfish as it was, I wished that someone would come to see me, that same look of sorrow and longing and worry and…pity smeared across their faces so that I could smack it off of them. I wanted someone to take it out on, all of the frustration and confusion and the anger, and just thinking that made me disgusted with myself.
The disgust only fed more and more into the rage. I was still a zombie; thoughtless, but no longer emotionless…bloodthirsty, in a sense. I didn’t understand the emotion, and I wished so badly that I could dig deeper into my own mind to understand where it was coming from – maybe if I understood it, I could make it go away. I didn’t understand, though. I chocked it up to being a part of the different stages of dealing with loss, but somehow, that alone didn’t satisfy me enough.
Earlier, I’d thrown the majority of my framed photos of myself with friends and family at a wall in my living room. I’d somehow found some sort of superhuman strength inside of my tiny, sickly little frame to flip my sofa onto its back. There were flowers scattered all over the floor in every room that my tornado-like path had struck. It looked almost romantic, like I’d been trying to surprise my lover with an anniversary surprise, a candlelit dinner, mind-blowing sex…
In reality, there was no lover in for a clichéd, passionate evening. I hadn’t had anything to eat in nearly a week. The thought of sex made me feel tense and nauseous. There was nothing inside this house but the shattered remains of what used to be a home.
There was nothing inside me but the shattered remains of what used to be a human being.
It took me a few days to feel anything at all. I was a thoughtless, emotionless zombie, in all honesty. And then, on the fourth day, I felt it, something that took me by surprise. I couldn’t suppress it. It wouldn’t go away. That’s all I wanted, crumpled up on my bathroom floor, just to be a zombie again.
But the endless rage was just that. Endless.
No one had come to see me. The last time someone had come to see me, I was still a zombie. I was partially grateful for that – no one would have to suffer at the hands of my irrational fury – but at the same time, selfish as it was, I wished that someone would come to see me, that same look of sorrow and longing and worry and…pity smeared across their faces so that I could smack it off of them. I wanted someone to take it out on, all of the frustration and confusion and the anger, and just thinking that made me disgusted with myself.
The disgust only fed more and more into the rage. I was still a zombie; thoughtless, but no longer emotionless…bloodthirsty, in a sense. I didn’t understand the emotion, and I wished so badly that I could dig deeper into my own mind to understand where it was coming from – maybe if I understood it, I could make it go away. I didn’t understand, though. I chocked it up to being a part of the different stages of dealing with loss, but somehow, that alone didn’t satisfy me enough.
Earlier, I’d thrown the majority of my framed photos of myself with friends and family at a wall in my living room. I’d somehow found some sort of superhuman strength inside of my tiny, sickly little frame to flip my sofa onto its back. There were flowers scattered all over the floor in every room that my tornado-like path had struck. It looked almost romantic, like I’d been trying to surprise my lover with an anniversary surprise, a candlelit dinner, mind-blowing sex…
In reality, there was no lover in for a clichéd, passionate evening. I hadn’t had anything to eat in nearly a week. The thought of sex made me feel tense and nauseous. There was nothing inside this house but the shattered remains of what used to be a home.
There was nothing inside me but the shattered remains of what used to be a human being.
♠ ♠ ♠
This chapter's a little bit longer than normal for this story.I'm also starting to notice that I don't update this unless I'm in an overwhelmed emotional state.
Which also means this will probably be updated more often.