You Could Save Me
I Think About you Most Nights
It's been 6 days, 4 hours and 33 minutes since my lips locked with Caleb's. Honestly, I thought counting the days was a pointless activity but being reduced to a vomiting mess in ones own bed can cause this ridiculous behaviour. I suppose you thought I had been channeling my inner wounded teenager. My bed a safe haven in which I can eat numerous boxes of chocolates and spoon my pillow in self pity. Well your thoughts are clearly mistaken. My body is a large, dead lump of matter. If I'm not screaming from the pain searing through my skull I'm vomiting violently. May I add all over myself; a sticky, rancid mess which dribbles down my chin. Some would call this the aftermath of rejection or even better side-effects of complete humiliation. I, on the other hand, call this the slow journey to death. Clearly, I managed to annoy my tumor that much that it felt the need to confide me to my bed without an ounce of dignity. Perhaps it's better that Caleb won't be resurfacing in my life. After all, who would feel attraction to a weak, vomiting, sick, little boy?
Slowly, I reach towards my bedside cabinet fumbling for my phone with the energy I have left. I grab it, a small achievement, as I hold it against my chest hoping for the impossible. I'm tired and this only frustrates me more as I bring the phone close to my face and inhale deeply. I blink. His name is deadly and beautiful; glowing brightly as I frantically press the buttons eager to read his message.
Noah. You're not allowed to do this to me. Why haven't you rung me? Left a message? Anything? I never thought somebody so confident could be such a coward. Meet me at the tea shop at 4 – I figured it has some meaning for the both of us. If you don't make an appearance I'm walking away. Don't start a story in my life if you don't intend on reaching the happy ending.
I think about you most nights..
Just. Yeah. I need to talk to you and this is becoming pathetic. 4 o clock. I hope you can make it – Caleb.
Without hesitation I launch my phone at the wall, it makes impact immediately and drops to the carpet in a collection of unfixable pieces. A happy ending? How the hell can he paint us as a fairy-tale and expect me to fit the unforgiving mould of prince charming? We are not children, pages from books don't burst into life, stories are fiction. A work of art. A web of fantasy, luring and false realities. No fairy godmother can change my life, signing won't create miracles and adventures won't bring you closer to everything you have been searching for. My story has been left unwritten, the pages have been turned and the words are fading fast.
Instantly, I regret breaking my phone. Perhaps sending him a scathing message would burst his false sense of reality. He can't say such beautiful yet hateful things in a messy, uncontrollable tangle without me getting caught up in it all. Indecision is binding me to his words as I snatch the plastic bowl beside me and heave into it painfully. Dying does not infuriate me but Caleb does. He's created an unnecessary problem, a trap set out by a poisonous apple. One bite and he's all I can think about. All I can think about losing..
With willpower I shuffle out of bed, collapsing against the wall as I hold the vomit down my throat. 20 minutes later I have splashed myself with cold water and idly run a comb through my hair. My skin is grey and fading, I pinch my cheeks hoping for the colour to come searing through my fingers but I remain old and haggard looking. My eyes shock me the most, two vacant orbs, just blinking tiredly as I stare at what has become myself in the mirror.
By the time I am clothed and trying to force food down myself I'm ready to explode. Every single part of me aches; lifting my spoon of cereal from the bowl to my mouth is such a huge effort that I'm practically laid dead across the kitchen table. I wonder how I would look to a stranger right now. Pathetic? Useless? Hopeless? A pleasant collection of adjectives that practically scream 'doesn't have a chance in hell of making it.'
I don't really know why I'm doing this to myself. I'm practically pulling myself to pieces for what? A bit on the side? Compliments? A fucking shoulder to cry on? Part of me knows that deep down he could change me, make me open myself up to him like a delicate flower. He can stick me in a vase and view me at his pleasure. I'll start of beautiful and then slowly shrivel into nothing. Dead. Gone. Something quite sensational that never really lasts for long enough.
He won't make it though this. I can already tell that he's not strong enough and it's only taken a stole kiss to prove that. I dump the bowl of cereal into the sink grateful that the few mouthfuls I have taken have stayed down. Cautiously, I approach the door, my legs are shaking as I brace myself against the wall. Maybe fresh air will do me the world of good. My lungs feel like wet, clumpy bags of sand. The outdoors might fill my chest with at least at ounce of satisfaction.
When I step outside the world fuzzes before my eyes in a colourful, painful splotch. I try to gain focus but my head spins distractedly and my stomach does an ungrateful flip. After a few minutes I start to shuffle down the path out into the open. I try to think of what I'm going to say to him.
So I kissed you and then ran away. Let's pretend it never happened and both get on with our lives.. It will be easier that way.
An hour later and I have reached my destination, by now my body is refusing to function and the nausea flooding through me is unbearable. I reach for the doorknob and my hand slides over the cold metal in an awkward fumble. Hot panic bubbles over me as the world becomes a carousel, a spinning swirl of laughter and artificial lights. I drop to my knees, fighting the urge to slam my skull against the pavement.
Is this what it feels like? Death?
I start screaming and before I can stop it I've thrown up, my hands pressed into my own vomit as hot tears slice down my cheeks. I'm on the fucking floor crying, is this what my life has become? The pain, lack of energy, practically begging death to swallow me whole? I sob uncontrollably, shame sinking through me as I collapse, a broken mess. It hurts, it really fucking hurts. I have experience pain in my life but this succumbs anything I have ever felt before. I stare up at the sky, my face slick with sweat and my body convulsing in an ugly, awkward manner. I'm practically choking on my own tears when the bell to the tea shop rings and the door is flung open. Uncomfortably I turn my head to the side as I throw up, humiliation washing over me as I cling onto life with my shaking fingertips.
It only takes Caleb's shriek of terror for the blanket of unconsciousness to smother me. I die a little more when the thought of his comforting hands reaching towards me becomes my final thought.
Slowly, I reach towards my bedside cabinet fumbling for my phone with the energy I have left. I grab it, a small achievement, as I hold it against my chest hoping for the impossible. I'm tired and this only frustrates me more as I bring the phone close to my face and inhale deeply. I blink. His name is deadly and beautiful; glowing brightly as I frantically press the buttons eager to read his message.
Noah. You're not allowed to do this to me. Why haven't you rung me? Left a message? Anything? I never thought somebody so confident could be such a coward. Meet me at the tea shop at 4 – I figured it has some meaning for the both of us. If you don't make an appearance I'm walking away. Don't start a story in my life if you don't intend on reaching the happy ending.
I think about you most nights..
Just. Yeah. I need to talk to you and this is becoming pathetic. 4 o clock. I hope you can make it – Caleb.
Without hesitation I launch my phone at the wall, it makes impact immediately and drops to the carpet in a collection of unfixable pieces. A happy ending? How the hell can he paint us as a fairy-tale and expect me to fit the unforgiving mould of prince charming? We are not children, pages from books don't burst into life, stories are fiction. A work of art. A web of fantasy, luring and false realities. No fairy godmother can change my life, signing won't create miracles and adventures won't bring you closer to everything you have been searching for. My story has been left unwritten, the pages have been turned and the words are fading fast.
Instantly, I regret breaking my phone. Perhaps sending him a scathing message would burst his false sense of reality. He can't say such beautiful yet hateful things in a messy, uncontrollable tangle without me getting caught up in it all. Indecision is binding me to his words as I snatch the plastic bowl beside me and heave into it painfully. Dying does not infuriate me but Caleb does. He's created an unnecessary problem, a trap set out by a poisonous apple. One bite and he's all I can think about. All I can think about losing..
With willpower I shuffle out of bed, collapsing against the wall as I hold the vomit down my throat. 20 minutes later I have splashed myself with cold water and idly run a comb through my hair. My skin is grey and fading, I pinch my cheeks hoping for the colour to come searing through my fingers but I remain old and haggard looking. My eyes shock me the most, two vacant orbs, just blinking tiredly as I stare at what has become myself in the mirror.
By the time I am clothed and trying to force food down myself I'm ready to explode. Every single part of me aches; lifting my spoon of cereal from the bowl to my mouth is such a huge effort that I'm practically laid dead across the kitchen table. I wonder how I would look to a stranger right now. Pathetic? Useless? Hopeless? A pleasant collection of adjectives that practically scream 'doesn't have a chance in hell of making it.'
I don't really know why I'm doing this to myself. I'm practically pulling myself to pieces for what? A bit on the side? Compliments? A fucking shoulder to cry on? Part of me knows that deep down he could change me, make me open myself up to him like a delicate flower. He can stick me in a vase and view me at his pleasure. I'll start of beautiful and then slowly shrivel into nothing. Dead. Gone. Something quite sensational that never really lasts for long enough.
He won't make it though this. I can already tell that he's not strong enough and it's only taken a stole kiss to prove that. I dump the bowl of cereal into the sink grateful that the few mouthfuls I have taken have stayed down. Cautiously, I approach the door, my legs are shaking as I brace myself against the wall. Maybe fresh air will do me the world of good. My lungs feel like wet, clumpy bags of sand. The outdoors might fill my chest with at least at ounce of satisfaction.
When I step outside the world fuzzes before my eyes in a colourful, painful splotch. I try to gain focus but my head spins distractedly and my stomach does an ungrateful flip. After a few minutes I start to shuffle down the path out into the open. I try to think of what I'm going to say to him.
So I kissed you and then ran away. Let's pretend it never happened and both get on with our lives.. It will be easier that way.
An hour later and I have reached my destination, by now my body is refusing to function and the nausea flooding through me is unbearable. I reach for the doorknob and my hand slides over the cold metal in an awkward fumble. Hot panic bubbles over me as the world becomes a carousel, a spinning swirl of laughter and artificial lights. I drop to my knees, fighting the urge to slam my skull against the pavement.
Is this what it feels like? Death?
I start screaming and before I can stop it I've thrown up, my hands pressed into my own vomit as hot tears slice down my cheeks. I'm on the fucking floor crying, is this what my life has become? The pain, lack of energy, practically begging death to swallow me whole? I sob uncontrollably, shame sinking through me as I collapse, a broken mess. It hurts, it really fucking hurts. I have experience pain in my life but this succumbs anything I have ever felt before. I stare up at the sky, my face slick with sweat and my body convulsing in an ugly, awkward manner. I'm practically choking on my own tears when the bell to the tea shop rings and the door is flung open. Uncomfortably I turn my head to the side as I throw up, humiliation washing over me as I cling onto life with my shaking fingertips.
It only takes Caleb's shriek of terror for the blanket of unconsciousness to smother me. I die a little more when the thought of his comforting hands reaching towards me becomes my final thought.