You're Gone

Tom had to physically carry me to Dylan's car. Nothing in my body worked anymore. I couldn't even believe my heart was still beating.

And in that very moment, I swear I wanted to die. I just wanted to be dead. To be six feet under, maggots eating at my flesh, my bones poking through my rotting skin. I couldn't imagine living anymore. I really couldn't. I couldn't picture my life in a week, a month, a year, five years, etc. I couldn't even picture waking up tomorrow. And I just wanted to die so fucking badly. A blade to the wrist, a stomach full of pills and booze, a quick escape. The easy way out.

I wasn't physically capable of this. I just wasn't. I was weak, and pathetic, and completely worthless. I killed my baby. I killed him because of my own selfish reasons. Because I killed him because I couldn't deal with reality then. And now I wanted to kill myself because I couldn't deal with reality now. Because I didn't have drugs anymore. And I just wasn't sure how to deal with hardships like these without them.

It's so simple to think that the first line of coke you do will be your last.

That the first needle into your arm will only be one of a few.

That the rocks you smoke won't take over your life.

But you're wrong. You're always wrong. Because drugs will always take over your life. And maybe you won't realize it at first. And maybe you'll think you can get off of them whenever you want. And maybe something’s awful will have to happen to make you realize the truth- but you're always too late.

"Yeh'll be fine Tristan," Dylan cooed to me as cried all over her shirt. My head was shoved in the crook of her neck, tears, snot, and drool pouring out of my face like individual little waterfalls that I couldn't stop. And she didn't care. She just sat there slowly rocking me back and forth with her arms wrapped around me, one around my middle and the other hand stroking the top of my hair lovingly.

All I did was cry harder in response.

Amanda slid herself into the driver's seat because the boys had all just finished their set and Tom had to help disassemble the stage.

"'re yeh sure?" Dylan whispered quietly to her as she started the car.

"'s fine Dyl," she answered just as softly. "She needs yeh."

All Dylan did was nod as I felt the car start to move. No one spoke the entire car ride back to our flat and I wondered what they were thinking about. Amanda especially. I couldn't imagine her thoughts were calm. I mean, she had been there too. She had heard his words just as clearly as I had. She had seen the emotion he had put into his performance. She had seen my reaction. That couldn't have been settling for her. And then I just felt terrible. Because maybe Oli had been right. Maybe it was stupid of me to just waltz back into Sheffield half expecting things to go back to normal. Because from what I had seen Amanda was an amazing girl and she really cared for him. And as much as it pained me to say, I think he really cared for her too. And here I was fucking everything up for both of them.

I couldn't do a goddamn thing right anymore.

Dylan and Amanda did their best to help me into the flat when we finally arrived there. And it took them awhile, but once I was in the confines of my room and safely nestled into the sheets of my bed, I heard them both breathe a sigh of relief. Dylan pulled my blinds shut and Amanda helped me out of my jeans. And just as she was pulling the sheets over my shaking body I looked up at her.

"I'm sorreh," I managed to sputter out.

She said nothing in response. Her and Dylan have a brief conversation in hushed tones for a short time before Amanda left. I felt the bed sink down next to me and I half hoped Dylan would just tuck me in without so much as a word. But I knew her better than that, and if I was being honest I sort of wanted her to pry. I wanted to spill my guts to her, to let her in on every little detail of my life she was oblivious to. Because maybe it would make me feel better.

But then I thought about what she would think of me. What she would think of when she found out her best friend had killed her only child because of the drugs that had taken over her life. I'm sure she would be appalled. Just like anyone would.

I was a horrible fucking person after all.

"Yeh don't 'ave ta tell me anyfhing," Dylan whispered, running her fingers through my long hair. She sighed then, like she was unsure of what else to say. I knew she was dying to know what happened. I was sure everyone was. Oliver and I had gone from seemingly perfect (minus the drugs, I suppose) to completely broken in a matter of hours. And then I just left for rehab and now I was back and he was angry and things just weren't ever supposed to be like this. "I'm 'ere though," she said then. "I always am. An' I know yeh probably know tha' already, but I really do mean it Tristan. I love yeh like yeh're my sister an' it kills me ta see yeh like this."

"I'm sorreh," I told her just like I had told Amanda. Although I suppose I was apologizing to her for different reasons. I had fucked both of their lives up, but in much different ways.

"Don't be sorreh," Dylan cooed.

"I should tell yeh wha' 'appened," I stated. "Bu' I can't Dyl. 's too 'ard."

"Tell me when yeh feel ready. Even if it takes yeh years."

She left sometime after that. My ruse of pretending to sleep had seemed to convince her and I listened as she quietly made her way out of my bedroom. From the hushed whispers throughout the flat I could tell Lee had made it back from the gig. I waited until the entire flat was quiet to leave. I dressed quickly in a slouchy grey sweater and pulled my skinny jeans back on. I then exited my room with great precious and was out the door without so much as a stir from Lee and Dylan's room.

It was probably stupid to walk over to his flat. To their flat. But I was delirious. And I couldn't lay there and cry anymore. And I couldn't think about it anymore. And in reality, he was the only person who I could talk about it with. He was the only person who would understand. At least, I hoped it would.

And from what I heard tonight I knew that he at least thought about that night. And that he felt some sort of regret. That maybe somewhere deep down in his heart that he still thought about me. So maybe that was the fuel to me walking across Sheffield in the rain just to get to his flat where I wasn't even sure I could muster up enough courage to say anything.

My closed fist was hovering over the door when I heard a loud cough from the other end of the hallway. My heart immediately jumped into my throat and I thought the only logical thing at that moment: someone was trying to kill me. So I very slowly turned my head only to realize the cough hadn't slipped out of some murderous lunatic who wanted to kill me, but rather from Oliver who looked just as equally drenched and depressed as I'm sure I did.

"Wha' 're yeh doin' 'ere?" He asked, his voice rough and raspy, no doubt from his screaming that night.

"I thought yeh'd be 'ome by now..." I mumbled.

"I walked 'round fer a while," he replied, his hands shoved into the pack pockets of his jeans. "Wha' 're yeh doin' 'ere?" He repeated.

I bit my lip. I wasn't sure what to say. On the way over I had played out a hundred different scenarios in my mind. What he would say. What I would say. What the outcome would be. You know, that sort of thing. But nothing was coming to my mind right now. In fact, I actually wanted to cry again. But I refused to let myself crumble like that in front of him again.

"I...uh, uhm, well...good show tonigh'," I settled on, biting my tongue quite literally after the words had left my mouth.

"Fhanks," he nodded, his hand shooting up to the back of his head where he ran his fingers through his now curling hair.

"Yeh've really, uhm, grown, yeh know...musically..."

"Cut tha shit," he cut me off. His tone wasn't harsh like it had been most other times he had spoken to me. Instead it was tired, lacking any real emotion expect for maybe exhaustion. "I know yeh didn't walk all tha way 'ere in tha rain ta tell me we 'ad a good show," he sighed. "I wrote songs about yeh. Almost all of them are about yeh actually. An' I know yeh know. An' I know Tom had ta carry yeh ta tha car. Wha' do yeh 'aveta say ta me, Tris?"

My eyes were wide as I blinked a few times, unsure of how I could possibly respond to him now. "I jus'....I'm sorreh," I said finally.

I had been doing a lot of that lately. Apologizing that is. But I felt the need to. I felt the need to tell everyone around me how sorry I was for being in their lives. For fucking everything up. For being the one thing that they could always count on to screw up a good thing. I was no good. I had no idea why anyone kept me around.

"Sorreh?" He asked, his voice raising an octave as he glanced up from the floor. "Sorreh?" He repeated as he took three massive steps towards me. "Sorreh?" He spat. "Two fuckin' years later an' all yeh 'ave ta say is "I'm sorreh?'" He yelled incredulously. "Yeh've gotta be fuckin' wiff me!"

"I, I don't know wha' yeh wan' me ta say..." my eyes were darting all around the hallway as I tried desperately to find some comfort within it. It worked to no avail though.

I had gotten myself into this. My brain was all sorts of fucked up. I actually thought this was a good idea. I actually thought this would solve my problems. I was so wrong. So fucking wrong.

"Sorreh doesn't do shit!" His voice boomed. I jumped slightly at the harshness of his voice and bit the inside of my lip so hard I started to bleed. "Sorreh doesn't bring 'm back. Sorreh doesn't fix what yeh did."

"It wasn't all me Oliver," I whimpered. I could taste the blood on my tongue. "Yeh left before I did. Yeh were always doin' drugs too. Yeh were always there. I didn't know. I could've stopped. I would've stopped."

"'ow can yeh be so sure? Yeh could barely make it a few 'ours wiffout shootin' somefhin' up or snortin' somefhin' or smokin' somefhin'. If I remember correctly, yeh snorted two lines tha mornin' it 'appened," he pointed out, as if the memory wasn't so permanently etched into my brain.

"I didn't know!" I yelled, a small drop of blood leaking from my mouth and onto my lip. I quickly ran my tounge over it and swallowed the blood nervously. "Oliver....we wouldn't 'ave been able ta take care of 'm anyway," I murmured quietly.

"I would've been a damn good father," he hissed at me, his eyes narrow and completely full of rage. "Don't yeh fuckin' tell me wha' I could've done," he pointed an accusing finger in my face.

"We were bofh so strung out though...."

“I would ‘ave been there. I could’ve done it Tris,” he told me adamantly, his voice strained. And at that point, I wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“I dunno if I could’ve,” I admitted softly.

“Tha’s the problem!” He yelled. “Yeh never ‘ad any faith in yehself!”

“Is tha’ why yeh blame me?” I asked, my voice so pitiful and small I wasn’t sure if he actually heard me. He looked like he didn’t know what to say. Like he really had to think of any answer. He was unsure of himself.

“’s so much easier ta hate yeh than ta hate myself,” he divulged delicately.

“Yeh hate yehself?” I inquired, my head snapping up to meet his gaze.

"I can't do this righ' now," he muttered, turning on his heel and digging in his pocket for his keys. "Don't come back, okay? I can't fuckin' do this."

He was gone after that. And I was standing in the middle of the hallway. Still dripping wet from the rain. Mouth bleeding. And now tears slowly slipping down my cheeks.

And I was alone.