Hell and Glory

Most people find beauty in the morning. Some people take solace knowing they wake up with the sun. There will always be those overzealous fitness junkies who rise at the crack of dawn to go for a morning jog. Some people find beauty watching the night sky wash away, overtaken by hues of orange and pink. The way they talk about it makes it sound like the sunrise is a goddamn religious experience.

I have always hated the sunrise. It makes my stomach do back flips. The only thing squashing my unbearable nausea is the nicotine drifting past my lips, a habit I’ve found that has calmed my nerves and squashed my appetite since I was fourteen years old. Nicotine gave me comfort I couldn’t find anywhere else. My relationship with nicotine, like most of my other “vices,” was never an addiction; I like to think of it as more of a friendship. I found an undeniable serenity in them. What many would call bad habits were the basis of my entire existence. I suppose I’ve always been bent on self-destructing. One could say self-destruction runs in my family. Chaos was normal for us.

We all had our own methods of escaping. My father drank. My mother starved. My brother fell back on a string of one-night stands. My sister became a coke whore in the LA party scene, and my youngest sister was (and still is) a bitter bitch with a blog and no love from mommy and daddy. I had multiple escape routes at my disposal. Drugs, food, nicotine… They never seemed wrong to me. They were comforting, something akin to a warm blanket on a cold night. I never wanted to leave them because nothing ever compared. At least, not until you came along.
Since the moment I met you, you were a source of both the butterflies in stomach and the aching pain in my chest. You were one of my best friends and, in a way, my worst enemy. You caused me as much heartache as you did happiness, and I bottled it all up and put a smile on for you. Even when I finally had you to myself, I stuffed myself full of secrets I didn’t ever want you to know. That’s the downside of vices: even when you have what you wanted all along, it’s not easy to let them go. I couldn’t stop, so I hid. I was fearful of what you’d think. I hid them within myself until I was bursting at the seams with my own lies… and I inevitably exploded.

Somehow, you weren’t angry with me. You wanted to help me. You told me you were there for me, that you wanted me to get better. I told you I wanted to get better. I think that was the problem. I was doing it for you. That’s another funny thing about vices: you can only stop them on your own accord. I wanted to stop. I did, just not badly enough to drive them into extinction. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stop. I still can’t stop. I hope you understand that. You were so patient with me before last night.

As I sit on an empty bench in Griffith Park, my mind starts to wander. I think of all the all-nighters we pulled and all the times you gave up your sleep to keep me company (I know how precious your sleep is to you). It would always play out the same way. We would sit on my bed, right in front of the bay window, staring blankly outside. You would rest your hand on my shoulder and pull me closer to you. I could smell that night’s dinner on your breath. You could smell Crest toothpaste on mine. That was how it started. That was how you always knew. We would argue, but it would never last long. It always ended like this. You always stayed up all night with me when I couldn’t sleep. The sunrise used to poke up through the window behind you. I loved the way your eyes looked in the morning light, the way your skin glowed. You reminded me of an angel, but I don’t believe in those. I never enjoyed the sunrise either. Not until I met you, at least.

But you aren’t here. You’re at home. You’re probably pacing, probably sleepless, probably worried, wondering where the hell I wandered off to. I hate to leave you like that. I hate to just up and leave. I tell you everything. Well, almost everything. But it was for your own good, or maybe it was just for mine. In retrospect, the lying only ever helped me. It hurt you. I guess, in a way, it hurt me too. Was that what you were trying to show me? Were you trying to save me? That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. You reveled in being my hero. You made sure you were always there. I wipe a stray tear from my cheek and sigh. I hate realizing when I’m wrong, and right now, I’m definitely wrong. I had no right to storm out like that.

I had tugged my hand from the gentle, protective grip of yours around eleven o’clock last night. I grabbed my cigarettes and fall jacket and left. I had no idea where the hell I would go. I didn’t care. I just needed to leave before I did or said something I would regret. I still love you. I hope you realize that. This is just a silly fight. It doesn’t mean anything. So, I skipped breakfast. Was it really that big of a deal? I sigh and drop my head, staring for a moment at the empty box of Newport cigarettes sitting beside my feet.

I watch in contempt as the sun begins to break over the horizon. The light slowly begins to push away the darkness. I grind my teeth at the sight. My fingers clutch my burning cigarette. Suddenly feeling anxious, I take deep breaths of smoke and let the tar fill my lungs. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Ashes fall at the flat heels of my boots. I hate the sunrise. I hate it. You always used to ask me why. I never knew what to tell you. I don’t even really know myself. I wish I had the answer. I feel like I’ve spent my entire life looking for answers, and twenty years later, I’m still as confused and ignorant as I was the day I was born.

My fingers drum anxiously on the bench. I can’t push you from my mind. I need you. I’m sorry. I need you. I’m tired. I want to crawl into bed. I want to lay beside you, soak in your warmth, and fall asleep. I want to feel your arms around me. I want to feel safe again. I rise to my feet. Home. I need to go home. I need to see you.

I drop my cigarette. I don’t bother putting it out. I just leave the filter there to burn and head back toward our apartment.

I’ve never felt more at home before I moved in with you. Even when I lived with my brother there was a sense of detachment. That was hard for me. I think that was when I realized I was getting worse. I felt detached from my twin brother, the only constant figure in my life besides Charlie, and he was technically paid to be in my life. I never felt detached from you. Moving in with you had been a leap. Everyone said so. Everyone laughed at us. The magazines said we would fail, that our three-month relationship would crack and falter under the stress of sharing a home. We’ve been living there for a month now, and nothing could ever feel as right as this.

The twenty-minute walk feels like it takes hours. My feet drag against the stained city pavement. My body is worn and weak. I want to laugh at the thought. What else is new? I feel my heart pounding in my chest. It pounds again and again against the inside of my rib cage. My bones shake with every step. My walk is slow and strained, yet I carry on. I shove past early-risers, possibly on their way to work, all staring at me, muttering things at me. They tell me to watch where I’m going. I don’t care. I just continue to obstruct the flow of traffic. I pay no attention to anybody else. Just keep staring ahead. Just keep walking. I can’t get you out of my head. I don’t want to fight.

Suddenly, I find myself in front of the door and pause. I stare the surface, trace it with my fingers hesitantly. Should I go in? Yes. It may not be a good idea… You still may be angry. Don’t be a coward. I am not a coward. Go.

I reach for the doorknob, but before I can even wrap my hand around it, it opens. I look up. You’re there. You look at me, straight at me. You look like you haven’t slept. Your wavy, brown hair is a tangled mess. Your chestnut eyes are slightly bloodshot. You look like hell. I probably look worse.

“Where were you?” you ask.

I just look at you. “No where.”

Your eyelids close. You look frustrated with me, yet you just sigh. “Look, I really don’t want to fight. Just… please, come inside.”

I do as you say. I step in the door. You close it behind me. I take a deep breath. I want to sleep. I want nothing more than to sleep. A sharp pain shoots through my chest. I clutch the fabric of my shirt. “Uh…” I mutter, but your voice cuts me off.

“I’m sor—“

I whip around instantly, black hair following behind me. “No,” I interject. “Don’t start. I don’t want to start this now.” I shake my head, stepping back. You reach for me. Your hand meets my arm, and my muscles grow tense. I feel pressure shoot through my shoulder to my wrist. My whole arm feels dead and useless, tightened and locked in place. I turn my head away from you.
“I think we need to talk about this,” you say to me. You try to be reasonable. You’re always so goddamn reasonable. It makes me want to scream.

“No—” I swallow the lump in my throat. “—we really don’t.” I glance at you, but your face doesn’t look the same. You don’t look like yourself. Your face is blurred. The brown in your eyes runs into the beige of your skin. I glance around some more. The whole room is like this. The whole apartment looks like a bad watercolor painting. The room seems to spin around me. The light from the window is blinding. The light from the ceiling lamp above me leaves flashes before my eyes. I squint. I try to focus on something, anything. I give up and close my eyes. I look away. What is this? I feel weightless. My head is warm. No, it’s on fire.

“…are you okay?”

“Fine—“ I choke out before my entire neck stiffens. “I—” My entire jaw follows suit. I feel frozen. I don’t want to move. I’m too scared to move. The discomfort spreads. I just need to sleep. I’m tired, and I smoked way too much. I’m just tired.

“Hey—”

“Fine,” I repeat. My chest tightens. My chest constricts. Air isn’t getting through to my lungs anymore. I expand my chest as far as I can. I gasp for every bit of air I can get. I try to sputter out something. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore.

I feel your arm move around me. You try to nudge me in another direction. I’m startled. I nearly collapse on you. “You look sick… You’re ghost white.” You’re worried. I hear it in your voice. I wish you wouldn’t sound so concerned. It always makes me feel bad.

I shake my head. My breathing is growing worse and worse with every passing second. I feel warm. Cold sweat drips from my forehead. My hands are sweating too. My stomach does flips again. Your voice no longer reaches my ears. I can’t tell if you’re talking anymore. I slouch, and my body jerks forward, lurching as what feels like a gallon of empty stomach acid spills across our floor. Your feet shuffle away from me instantly. My nose is an inch from the floor. I can smell my own puke. I feel heavy. I tremble. Suddenly, the hardwood surface below rushes toward my face. I have blacked out. For once, I feel at peace. It's ironic.

The monster inside of my head is gone... but so am I.