Goodnight My Deadliest Disease

His naturally blue eyes flickered dark, shone by the only light that came from a small lighter in his hands. I tried looking at him, but every time I did, something dark and strange showed up. I was scared of him at the point. And so fascinated with the way the light shone on his features, making him more beautiful.

He lifted his eyes, meeting my own before smiling.

“Do you love me babe?” His voice was raspy and rough. It changed thorough the years.

“Yes,” I answered in more of a whisper, and really more convincing myself rather than believing the words.

“Do you believe me?” I nodded and kissed his chappy lips. “Here” he gave the syringe to me, not breaking the gaze.

He knew I would do anything for him. He knew I owned him. How could I not? He saved my life.

However, there was a point in my life when I wondered was he really saving me? Or he just wanted to pull me with him to the empty hole of nothingness?

I was a head cheerleader before I met him. I lived in my perfect little world, surrounded by perfect friends, perfect family, and perfect boyfriend. Living in a fairytale may seem like a dream come true, but for me it was a torture. Every day I had to wake up, I had to put on a smile, even when I felt like screaming. Little by little, my life was turning into Hell.

Or was it the Hell that tried living my life?

‘Till this day I didn’t understood the difference.

That’s when he came. The school rebel, the forbidden fruit. I knew there was something of about him. He was mysterious, gorgeous; he was a dream come true for every girl that loved adventure.

It was just another cliché. Daddy’s little girl fell for a typical no-no guy.

I didn’t care for clichés. I was in love. I gave him everything a girl could give. And he took it. And he wanted more.

“I… I can’t,” I stuttered and he gripped the syringe in his hand.

“I thought you love me.” There was something in his voice that I never heard before.

“I do. But this is different. Sure, smoking and occasional snore, I’m in. But this? I just can’t.” I stood up. I never thought I would gather the strength to actually stand up and fight for myself. It felt like stealing back your soul after the Devil himself has captured it.

“Natasha come back!” he roared. “Come the fuck back!”

And I ran. But I could still hear his voice ringing after me, “Fine, but don’t you come back crawling to me when your perfect world disappoints you again.”

I wanted so bad to be the one fighting the clichés. I wanted to be the one to prove the world that some clichés are just not true. I failed.

The rain was falling softly on a tired June day. It was so beautiful, yet so sad. I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to face the harsh reality once again. I looked at the chair next to my bed. There it lay, like a reminder. Like a bad decision.

The funeral dress.

My dress.

His funeral.

There were not much people there. I stood far from everyone, wishing to get over with it. All of my yeas of love and respect, my years of rebellion, turned into something that was always there, that I refused to acknowledge; that excised in me.

Standing on a muddy ground, in my black funeral dress, facing the closed casket, I realized; I would always be the girl I tried to escape. The girl I tried to kill with drugs and alcohol. The girl that saved me from taking that stupid syringe, and make the right choice; for the first time in my life.

His eyes still haunts me whenever I try to do something that I would regret. Like a reminder to the biggest mistake in my life. To my deadliest disease.