Not Enough
"you're just too much for me,"
He looked down at her with dark eyes. She was dressed in cheap black boots and a plaid flannel from Walmart. Sometimes he couldn't understand why she would cake her face with foundation and fill in her asymmetrical eyebrows too dark yet wear sweatpants and a Nirvana tee that didn't fit her awkward body.
To him, she was a hobby. Like he plucked strings on a guitar, he plucked her till he was bored. She would spend nights in his bed while he stood in his living room riddled by insomnia that she didn't care for. She slept so effortlessly and it irritated him when he was pacing the floor of his kitchen at 5AM. He couldn't understand why he kept her around, or why she stayed around. They weren't exactly a good pair together.
They would argue about why he thought her depression was her fault. They would argue about how she wouldn't feel useful even if she killed herself. They argued about her cooking, his ugly hair and his shit taste in music.
Yet everyday she came back. The buzzer would ring and he would feel annoyed and relieved at the same time. He didn't love her, but he wanted her to himself. He didn't want anyone to know how she would kill herself if she gained the courage to actually do it. He didn't want anyone to laugh at her for cutting her own hair at 2AM because she wanted to change something and it was just so easy to grab some scissors. He didn't want anyone seeing the stripes of scars on her legs from scratching herself when she thought it would make her feel better, but it didn't, so she continued anyway.
"Fuck off. You're pissing me off." She huffed out a cloud of smoke and looked up with a bitter face. Her two fingers holding the cigarette were cold as they shook. She didn't look good smoking, but it was as though she wore it as a perfume most days. In the mornings when she would shower he liked to smell her hair because she used a sweet smelling shampoo.
He pushed her shoulder and forced her body into the steel door. His fingers curled and for a moment he thought about putting them around her neck. She wanted to die so bad and he could do it. But she wasn't worth the punishment.
"Then leave. Nothing is keeping you here. Fucking go. I'm not you're fucking boyfriend, you use me so you can skip school and eat for free. Fucking leave."
He pulled her close to him and then roughly pushed her back into the door. The cigarette fell and so did she. Crumpled on the cement, her hands reached out to find the butt.
She shifted to the side as he flung the door open and slammed it behind him. Instead of standing outside the apartment door, she sat on the curb, picking at pebbles. She had no ride home and three cigarettes for the night. Her phone was dead long ago and it's not like she had money for a taxi in the first place. So she sat and hummed, playing with sand until it seeped under her nails and dusted her palms.
He never came back out, not once. He peeked through the window six times before deciding she was fine. He played his guitar and closed his window when she started crying. He didn't want to feel bad for a girl who didn't want to live, a girl who was almost fat, a girl who was just too fucking sad and didn't lie about it. He just didn't want to feel anything for that girl. Well he did, but it just wasn't enough.
When he got a call from the local police station three days later, he wasn't surprised to hear from them. She told him she would and she actually did. She lied to him though, she had always planned to take pills and just fall asleep in a trail where she would never wake up. Instead she chugged a bottle of cheap rum before she jumped off a bridge.
She always said she wanted to fly before she died.
He never listened to Nirvana again.
To him, she was a hobby. Like he plucked strings on a guitar, he plucked her till he was bored. She would spend nights in his bed while he stood in his living room riddled by insomnia that she didn't care for. She slept so effortlessly and it irritated him when he was pacing the floor of his kitchen at 5AM. He couldn't understand why he kept her around, or why she stayed around. They weren't exactly a good pair together.
They would argue about why he thought her depression was her fault. They would argue about how she wouldn't feel useful even if she killed herself. They argued about her cooking, his ugly hair and his shit taste in music.
Yet everyday she came back. The buzzer would ring and he would feel annoyed and relieved at the same time. He didn't love her, but he wanted her to himself. He didn't want anyone to know how she would kill herself if she gained the courage to actually do it. He didn't want anyone to laugh at her for cutting her own hair at 2AM because she wanted to change something and it was just so easy to grab some scissors. He didn't want anyone seeing the stripes of scars on her legs from scratching herself when she thought it would make her feel better, but it didn't, so she continued anyway.
"Fuck off. You're pissing me off." She huffed out a cloud of smoke and looked up with a bitter face. Her two fingers holding the cigarette were cold as they shook. She didn't look good smoking, but it was as though she wore it as a perfume most days. In the mornings when she would shower he liked to smell her hair because she used a sweet smelling shampoo.
He pushed her shoulder and forced her body into the steel door. His fingers curled and for a moment he thought about putting them around her neck. She wanted to die so bad and he could do it. But she wasn't worth the punishment.
"Then leave. Nothing is keeping you here. Fucking go. I'm not you're fucking boyfriend, you use me so you can skip school and eat for free. Fucking leave."
He pulled her close to him and then roughly pushed her back into the door. The cigarette fell and so did she. Crumpled on the cement, her hands reached out to find the butt.
She shifted to the side as he flung the door open and slammed it behind him. Instead of standing outside the apartment door, she sat on the curb, picking at pebbles. She had no ride home and three cigarettes for the night. Her phone was dead long ago and it's not like she had money for a taxi in the first place. So she sat and hummed, playing with sand until it seeped under her nails and dusted her palms.
He never came back out, not once. He peeked through the window six times before deciding she was fine. He played his guitar and closed his window when she started crying. He didn't want to feel bad for a girl who didn't want to live, a girl who was almost fat, a girl who was just too fucking sad and didn't lie about it. He just didn't want to feel anything for that girl. Well he did, but it just wasn't enough.
When he got a call from the local police station three days later, he wasn't surprised to hear from them. She told him she would and she actually did. She lied to him though, she had always planned to take pills and just fall asleep in a trail where she would never wake up. Instead she chugged a bottle of cheap rum before she jumped off a bridge.
She always said she wanted to fly before she died.
He never listened to Nirvana again.