My Dinosaur Life

“What if there’s nothing more to me? I’m just skin and bones, there’s no mystery.”

(Him)

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Maybe I should have left after this whole mess.

But it’s not fair.

I was here first.

She should’ve gone back to wherever she was before I met her, and left me and Minneapolis in peace.

Left the whole Goddamn Midwest alone.

But there’s no point at all to my thought process because it doesn’t change the fact that I’m standing in her doorway right now.

It doesn’t change that at this point, there’s nothing more to us than this.

“Justin,” she says. Her voice is raspy and her eyes nauseatingly pleading. I don’t answer. “I need you.”

She doesn’t wait for my response; she just kisses me hard, pressing her body to mine.

I groan, my lips moving in sync with hers and my hands gripping her waist as if it will make everything okay again.

But it won’t.

It’s shit, but it’s true.

“We…can’t,” I state suddenly, coming to my senses and gently separating our limbs.

“Please,” she whispers, not looking at me anymore, she’s looking at the floor, but one of her hands clutches at my t-shirt slightly.

I try not to give in, but fuck!

I’m just a guy.

Nothing more.

It’s the weekend and I’m weak.

What else am I supposed to do?

I give inlike always and then I’m just skin and she’s bones and there’s nothing more to us and -

Were we ever anything more?

She falls asleep right after and I lie there in a contained delirium for awhile.

I find pills, pills, and more pills on the dresser next to her bed. I pick up a familiar looking bottle; reading the label before curiously popping a few into my mouth.

They’re supposed to calm me down, so I can stop shaking enough to think things through. I toss the bottle to the other side of the room to get rid of the temptation.

They don’t work; I feel a panic episode coming on and find myself wishing I had my inhaler.

I dress myself with shaky, shaky hands, my breathing coming in short bursts.

I stumble out clumsily, slamming the door behind me, almost running to my car parked in front.

My breathing still comes in ragged pants, so I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, hoping it won’t turn into a full-blown anxiety attack.

I manage to drive home without freaking out or checking my tires.

I throw up on my front lawn after parking my car.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

A few weeks later, I get an unexpected phone call.

A few week later, I’m on tour, but still mostly miserable, like I’m stuck in a bad dream.

“Hello?” I ask blearily; it’s too early for my phone to be ringing and my phone doesn’t recognize the number.

“I hope you’re happy, asshole,” a voice I only vaguely recognize growls at me. “She’s in the hospital.”

“Chelsea-”

The line is dead.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

“Why did you come here, Justin?” she asks tiredly, her dark eyes reflecting her complete exhaustion.

As if just a month or so ago those same eyes weren’t begging me to spend the night.

They look stranger than normal – her glittery coal irises don’t match her bright blonde hair and fair skin.

Now, with her skin a sickly pale and her body an unhealthy skin-and-bones kind of thin, her hair lanky and dull, even though it’s hanging out front like I always used to ask her to wear it and – I don’t know how to describe the contrast.

“To make sure you’re okay,” I finally reply, recovering from my initial shock of the state she’s in.

“I’m alive,” she offers stiffly.

Are you? – is what I want to ask.

“Why’d you-”

“I didn’t try to kill myself. I know that’s what everyone thinks.” She checks the time then swallows two pills. I recognize them. They’re the half-blue half-white capsules, the ones for bi-polar symptoms. “And I didn’t do it because of you, you know,” she says.

She looks out the window.

“I think I was pregnant.” I follow her gaze outside as I try to process everything in my brain.

“W-was?” I repeat, trying to stay calm even though I’m sure I hear my voice crack. She shrugs.

“Maybe. Not anymore.”

“Were…were you…sure?” I stammer stupidly. But I can’t bring myself to look at her. I close my eyes.

“Does it make a difference?” she remarks viciously. “Would it have?”

My head’s in my hands, and I don’t answer her; I don’t fucking know.

For all I know, it could have made all the difference in the world.

The way she’s saying these things like they’re nothing- every other word of her verbal attack feels like a punch to the gut, a slap in the face.

“You always do this,” I say, evening out my tone. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? Just…always.”

She stays silent, watching me trying to control my temper.

I don’t know why I’m so mad.

But she’s acting so…like herself.

“God – fucking – damn,” I say, through gritted teeth. “These fucking mind games, Annie!”

I abruptly stand up. I know she won’t listen to me.

It’s a never-ending shit-storm with her.

I can’t fucking stand it, and I can’t forgive her.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she asks, and my stomach churns, making me sick for no real reason.

“Bye, Annie,” I say, turning to leave, because I’m feeling nauseous just from looking at her.

“I told you that you couldn’t handle me.”

She’s right, but I walk out the door as if I haven’t heard her.

I want her to take it back.

I want her to take everything back, and I want to know-

When is it ever about ME?