Sequel: Elysian ›
Status: In Progress
Restless Insomniacs
Daria
I close my eyes and rest my head back a little bit further, it is night time and I am in my front yard watching the sky turn a deep midnight blue, highlighted only by a few stars. There are no clouds and the stars are beautiful, more beautiful than I could ever hope to be, despite their beauty I close my eyes. I want to be alone, completely alone, even alone from the pretty stars and shining moon. I need to be alone because my heart is aching like a broken limb and I don’t know how to stop it from hurting so.
A broken leg suddenly seems preferable. If I broke my leg I could go to the hospital and show the doctor where it hurts, show him there is something broken with inside me, but with sadness it is not that easy. It never is, there is nowhere to point to for the pain, because it hurts all over. I think my heart is broken and no amount of fancy scans or tests could ever display that fact properly. I also know that physically my heart is fine, emotionally is another story all together, there is no break, no tear but that doesn’t stop it from throbbing like a broken leg might.
I do not realise I am not alone until a hand finds mine on the cold grass. I don’t bother to open my eyes because I know there is only one person who would bother to look for me on my front lawn at night.
I also know that physically my heart is fine, emotionally is another story all together, there is no break, no tear but that doesn’t stop it from throbbing like a broken leg might. I do not realise I am not alone until a hand finds mine on the cold grass. I don’t bother to open my eyes because I know there is only one person who would bother to look for me on my front lawn at night.
Yale.
“What are you doing?” He asks and I notice that he has the smoothest voice I have ever heard. My father had the same voice, not a single fault in his throat and mouth, I wish his lungs were the same. The smell of harsh cigarettes pulls me away from my thoughts and I open my eyes, I stare beside me at the beautifully hopeless angry boy.
“I am lying,”
“Why here?”
“It’s quiet” I don’t expect him to understand, my house is utterly soundless at the moment but for some reason I can hear every breathe my father ever took in that house. The noise is ear splitting and the only place I have found it doesn’t reach me is in the front yard under the stars and the moon.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, I count to thirty waiting for him to answer. I am about to close my eyes and go back to my thoughts when his voice fills my ears and hurts my head.
“I couldn’t sleep,” It is almost perfect his answer, but nothing is perfect. I notice a small scar on the corner of his mouth and it reminds me that Yale is bruised and broken, from the small scar on his lip to his dull heart beats.
Yale is holding my hand tightly as if he is afraid I will disappear and I am not so sure I won’t I don’t think I can speak right now, this all too much but I want to let him know I am still here, even if it is silently. I give his hand a long hard squeeze, Yale settles in beside me and I think I fall asleep to the smell of his ever present lit cigarette.
It is still dark when I wake and Yale is gone, he has left something behind in the grass though, his lighter. I reach for it and stroke it between my fingers like I might a piece of fabric, memorising the feel and texture. And even though I know I should give it back to him I hide it in my room, because I don’t ever want to forget that Yale is my sleeping drug.
Early that morning before school I find myself in the shower sitting at the bottom chewing on old black nail polish that covers my fingernails, staring at faded bruises and trying to remember where others once sat. I am scared I am forgetting. Alex has called me seven times today and as much as I want to ignore his calls a part of me, a large part reaches for the phone every time he calls, because he is Alex. My Alex, and that has to count for something.
I am unsure which is worse the pain of trying to forget a boy who holds me in a vice grip or fading bruises I poke at with angry fingers. I don’t think I will ever figure out which is harder because how can you compare the two? You can’t, and I am left thinking of Yale and all he would say if he could see me now. Trying to blame the water from the shower falling on my face for my tear stained cheeks. He would probably hold me and tell me everything will be okay.
And I would probably believe him because I can’t help but fall in love with every lie he tells me, and for a few hours I would feel better, maybe even happy. But then he would leave and like the last sip of my big gulps I would be left feeling bitter and empty. And I am not sure if it is worth it anymore, the big gulp or Yale. Despite this I find his lighter and hold it, because he is Yale.
My Yale.
A broken leg suddenly seems preferable. If I broke my leg I could go to the hospital and show the doctor where it hurts, show him there is something broken with inside me, but with sadness it is not that easy. It never is, there is nowhere to point to for the pain, because it hurts all over. I think my heart is broken and no amount of fancy scans or tests could ever display that fact properly. I also know that physically my heart is fine, emotionally is another story all together, there is no break, no tear but that doesn’t stop it from throbbing like a broken leg might.
I do not realise I am not alone until a hand finds mine on the cold grass. I don’t bother to open my eyes because I know there is only one person who would bother to look for me on my front lawn at night.
I also know that physically my heart is fine, emotionally is another story all together, there is no break, no tear but that doesn’t stop it from throbbing like a broken leg might. I do not realise I am not alone until a hand finds mine on the cold grass. I don’t bother to open my eyes because I know there is only one person who would bother to look for me on my front lawn at night.
Yale.
“What are you doing?” He asks and I notice that he has the smoothest voice I have ever heard. My father had the same voice, not a single fault in his throat and mouth, I wish his lungs were the same. The smell of harsh cigarettes pulls me away from my thoughts and I open my eyes, I stare beside me at the beautifully hopeless angry boy.
“I am lying,”
“Why here?”
“It’s quiet” I don’t expect him to understand, my house is utterly soundless at the moment but for some reason I can hear every breathe my father ever took in that house. The noise is ear splitting and the only place I have found it doesn’t reach me is in the front yard under the stars and the moon.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, I count to thirty waiting for him to answer. I am about to close my eyes and go back to my thoughts when his voice fills my ears and hurts my head.
“I couldn’t sleep,” It is almost perfect his answer, but nothing is perfect. I notice a small scar on the corner of his mouth and it reminds me that Yale is bruised and broken, from the small scar on his lip to his dull heart beats.
Yale is holding my hand tightly as if he is afraid I will disappear and I am not so sure I won’t I don’t think I can speak right now, this all too much but I want to let him know I am still here, even if it is silently. I give his hand a long hard squeeze, Yale settles in beside me and I think I fall asleep to the smell of his ever present lit cigarette.
It is still dark when I wake and Yale is gone, he has left something behind in the grass though, his lighter. I reach for it and stroke it between my fingers like I might a piece of fabric, memorising the feel and texture. And even though I know I should give it back to him I hide it in my room, because I don’t ever want to forget that Yale is my sleeping drug.
Early that morning before school I find myself in the shower sitting at the bottom chewing on old black nail polish that covers my fingernails, staring at faded bruises and trying to remember where others once sat. I am scared I am forgetting. Alex has called me seven times today and as much as I want to ignore his calls a part of me, a large part reaches for the phone every time he calls, because he is Alex. My Alex, and that has to count for something.
I am unsure which is worse the pain of trying to forget a boy who holds me in a vice grip or fading bruises I poke at with angry fingers. I don’t think I will ever figure out which is harder because how can you compare the two? You can’t, and I am left thinking of Yale and all he would say if he could see me now. Trying to blame the water from the shower falling on my face for my tear stained cheeks. He would probably hold me and tell me everything will be okay.
And I would probably believe him because I can’t help but fall in love with every lie he tells me, and for a few hours I would feel better, maybe even happy. But then he would leave and like the last sip of my big gulps I would be left feeling bitter and empty. And I am not sure if it is worth it anymore, the big gulp or Yale. Despite this I find his lighter and hold it, because he is Yale.
My Yale.