Fiend

It's been a month since he left. Life hasn't been the same. I am currently working overtime every week just to survive and pay the bills. I even find myself breaking into my savings, which is devastating for me because it makes me realize everyday that little by little my dream of moving out of this shit city is fading before my eyes. It feels as if I am struggling everyday in order to enjoy life.

I have no friends now because Liam has left me to go on his self-discovery bullshit, Jason is in jail and I refuse to tell him about what had happened, and I completely lost touch with Aaron as I just recently dropped out of school. School was no longer rewarding to me and forget about going to college, as I wouldn't be able to afford it on my own.

I really have no motivation to do anything anymore. And the worst part of this whole event is that I relapsed. I relapsed so fucking bad. There were more cuts on my arms then I ever made before. It's like the pain won't go away no matter how much I try to dig into my skin and pull it out.

I still attend therapy, twice a week. It's been a month now since the first session and we haven't really gotten anywhere. I refuse to open up to Dr. Jones about what the hell else is going on now. I can't bring myself to talk about it.

I mean, I guess the only person I can blame is myself right? I am the one who is pushing everyone away and the one person I wanted to stay was too fucked up to realize that he was the only stable thing in my life. He was the reason I stopped harming myself. He made me feel better about myself. Now that he isn't here, I resulted back to my whiny, uncontrollable self.

I walked over to the balcony and pulled out my pack of Marlboro Lights. I lit one on this windy Summer day and grabbed my coffee with my free hand after. I looked down at the ocean and thought about my suicide attempt last month. Stupid me. If I didn't do that, none of this would have happened.

I started to cry as I thought about what my life has resulted to now. I can't stand this. I can't stand myself. I smash my coffee mug on the ground in a fit of anger. All I could feel was rage rush through me. I started to break things in the apartment: picture frames, lamps, even the land line phone. I screamed in a fit of anger. I fucked up so bad. I truly hated myself.

I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror on the wall. The reflection back at me was a stranger. I wasn't the person I was earlier this year. What happened to me? In a fit of rage, I shatter the glass to pieces.

"Fuck!" I yelled. The glass cut into my knuckles. It wasn't a pleasant feeling at first but after time passed, I laughed. The pain felt nice as it started to numb down. The little cuts on my knuckles looked nice, an accessory for the slits on my wrists.

I fell down to the ground slowly as I held my fresh wounds in my untouched hand. I was a mess. Maybe it was time to confide in my therapist. Maybe I would feel better. Maybe I could move on with my life.

I heard the front door open and I froze. My insides started to do mini flips. My heart was thumping at a thousand beats per minute. I slowly got up, which was hard because my legs had apparently formed into jello. I opened the bathroom door slowly.

There he was with jagged breaths as he stared down at me. He was in the clothes I saw him in months ago. The striped polo shirt and the loose fitting jeans. He started to just slightly grow a chin strap. I stared at him as if he was ghost. He wasn't supposed to be here.

Never mind that my knuckles are dripping blood onto the white carpet. Never mind that my right arm also displays signs of my relapse. Never mind that the apartment is a mess from my mini rampage. He pulled me into him.

"Why didn't you respond?" Was all that he said to me.