Status: permanent hiatus - sorry
Kill The Lights
saved.
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
I’m confused, disorientated, lost. Always. I don’t know where I am. I don’t recognise these coarse sheets, these white walls, that persistent beeping. I feel like everything’s crashing down on me, suffocating and burying, only it’s slow, slow like the drag of a cigarette, like the cold morning air, like the careful stroke of a paintbrush. There’s a wall of water waiting to come in, pounding against the building, whatever building I’m in, desperate and dark. It’s seeping through the floorboards, leaking down the wallpaper, dripping from the ceiling. And it’s black, black, black like my heart.
It’s rushing through my veins, pounding, pounding, pounding in my heart, in my head, in my ears. Make it stop. I can hear it all falling, I can hear them all crying, I can hear the end. Please make it stop. I can’t concentrate, can’t think, can’t breathe, with all this noise.
Air is flooding my lungs but I’m still suffocating, still drowning in the torrent. I can’t, don’t want to be here, wherever here is. I just want it to stop.
“Deon?”
The voice makes me lurch forward, sitting up in an unfamiliar bed, an unfamiliar room, a familiar face. And I can breathe, but I don’t want to. And the water’s gone but I want it back. I’m gasping, everything’s fallen down inside me, I can’t quite understand why he’s here, my black heart is aching, aching, I’m aching. Always.
Pain rips at my arms, at my insides, as I curl into a ball, foetal position, protect my head, but not my heart for it is black and aching. And the water’s back, salty water, carving trails, burning tracks across my skin. And my lungs are protesting, in, out, in, out, in, out. I’m breathing, I’m breathing, and it hurts.
Everything hurts, because he’s next to me, he’s saying my name, over and over, like a chant to pray, like he thinks it’ll save me. It’s his arms around me, his breath on my skin, his tears, his tears falling and soaking and healing. His scent, his voice, his comfort, it’s him and he’s here and I’m hurting.
“Make it stop. Please, please, please… I just want it to stop.”
And I’m sobbing. I’m sobbing and gasping and drowning. Suffocating, dying. But I want him to save me. I want him, Tate, angel boy, angel mouth. I want his angel tears and his angel blood. I’ve run from him for so long, and I’m tired, I’m hurting. I want him to save me.
The wall of water’s still waiting to come in, but it’s leaking from me now. I’m crying, crying, aching. I’m breathing, it hurts. He’s here. His arms, angel boy.
I reach for him, finally, his skin solid, warm beneath my fingers. He’s real, he’s here, I’m breathing.
“Tate…”
And the walls crumble, the water floods, it still hurts. Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve said, it’s pouring out of me. Finally, finally, it’s being released, I’m being released, I can breathe. The inky blackness, the filth, the dirt, it’s rushing from my body, leaving my heart, my lungs, my head. It’s pouring forth, a torrent of blackness, dirt and sin. It’s dissolving. It’s gone.
I can breathe. It doesn’t hurt.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I can’t tell where he ends and I begin, but I don’t mind. He’s warm, he’s comforting, he’s here. Apologies are falling, like his tears, from my lips, explanations and excuses. He brushes them off, gathers me in his arms, lays us down, kisses my cheek.
And somehow that fixes everything. Somehow, he stops it all, the noise, the water, the hurt. With a brush of his lips, it’s gone. Nothing matters anymore, nothing but this, us, warmth and comfort and healing, healing, healed.
His arms are my haven, his voice is the only thing I ever want to hear. He’s Tate, he’s here, and he’s my angel boy. He’s beautiful, gorgeous. He saved me.
I’m confused, disorientated, lost. Always. I don’t know where I am. I don’t recognise these coarse sheets, these white walls, that persistent beeping. I feel like everything’s crashing down on me, suffocating and burying, only it’s slow, slow like the drag of a cigarette, like the cold morning air, like the careful stroke of a paintbrush. There’s a wall of water waiting to come in, pounding against the building, whatever building I’m in, desperate and dark. It’s seeping through the floorboards, leaking down the wallpaper, dripping from the ceiling. And it’s black, black, black like my heart.
It’s rushing through my veins, pounding, pounding, pounding in my heart, in my head, in my ears. Make it stop. I can hear it all falling, I can hear them all crying, I can hear the end. Please make it stop. I can’t concentrate, can’t think, can’t breathe, with all this noise.
Air is flooding my lungs but I’m still suffocating, still drowning in the torrent. I can’t, don’t want to be here, wherever here is. I just want it to stop.
“Deon?”
The voice makes me lurch forward, sitting up in an unfamiliar bed, an unfamiliar room, a familiar face. And I can breathe, but I don’t want to. And the water’s gone but I want it back. I’m gasping, everything’s fallen down inside me, I can’t quite understand why he’s here, my black heart is aching, aching, I’m aching. Always.
Pain rips at my arms, at my insides, as I curl into a ball, foetal position, protect my head, but not my heart for it is black and aching. And the water’s back, salty water, carving trails, burning tracks across my skin. And my lungs are protesting, in, out, in, out, in, out. I’m breathing, I’m breathing, and it hurts.
Everything hurts, because he’s next to me, he’s saying my name, over and over, like a chant to pray, like he thinks it’ll save me. It’s his arms around me, his breath on my skin, his tears, his tears falling and soaking and healing. His scent, his voice, his comfort, it’s him and he’s here and I’m hurting.
“Make it stop. Please, please, please… I just want it to stop.”
And I’m sobbing. I’m sobbing and gasping and drowning. Suffocating, dying. But I want him to save me. I want him, Tate, angel boy, angel mouth. I want his angel tears and his angel blood. I’ve run from him for so long, and I’m tired, I’m hurting. I want him to save me.
The wall of water’s still waiting to come in, but it’s leaking from me now. I’m crying, crying, aching. I’m breathing, it hurts. He’s here. His arms, angel boy.
I reach for him, finally, his skin solid, warm beneath my fingers. He’s real, he’s here, I’m breathing.
“Tate…”
And the walls crumble, the water floods, it still hurts. Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve said, it’s pouring out of me. Finally, finally, it’s being released, I’m being released, I can breathe. The inky blackness, the filth, the dirt, it’s rushing from my body, leaving my heart, my lungs, my head. It’s pouring forth, a torrent of blackness, dirt and sin. It’s dissolving. It’s gone.
I can breathe. It doesn’t hurt.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I can’t tell where he ends and I begin, but I don’t mind. He’s warm, he’s comforting, he’s here. Apologies are falling, like his tears, from my lips, explanations and excuses. He brushes them off, gathers me in his arms, lays us down, kisses my cheek.
And somehow that fixes everything. Somehow, he stops it all, the noise, the water, the hurt. With a brush of his lips, it’s gone. Nothing matters anymore, nothing but this, us, warmth and comfort and healing, healing, healed.
His arms are my haven, his voice is the only thing I ever want to hear. He’s Tate, he’s here, and he’s my angel boy. He’s beautiful, gorgeous. He saved me.
♠ ♠ ♠
word count: 675