And then the lava rising in his throat reached the tear
ducts, and the flood began.
Alone. He knew the word, but it was always shades of grey and negated by others telling him he had family, he had friends, he had people to count on. Now it sat on him like the world on Atlas' shoulders – crushing, and the tears want to come but he's hiding behind Wayfarers and choking them back because the only thing more pathetic than a broken person is a visibly broken person.
He thinks about his uncle. He thinks about the fact that he's become food for the worms - that never in all of space and time's infinite span, he will never ever feel his hands on his shoulders, reassuring, bolstering him. He'll never be able to remember what his face looked like as clearly as he used to, until he's just a blurred image in his mind which is only going to fade and grow fainter until he can't even remember why he loved him so fucking much.
He looks at his reflection in the windows of the bus station. The innocent girl's eyes from last night remind him of the eyes of another – and he feels vile – a monster – unlovable because he's just too fucking broken to even be able to love another. The drugs made him happy, and with serotonin now in karmic short supply, the high no longer radiating from his nostrils, he realizes how pathetic he is – what a waste of a life, a life spent inhaling drugs and snorting drugs and trying to forget just how fucked up he is. He tries to forget all the people who remind him of that – who were right – who saw the monster in him, hand-claws soaked in blood – and wants to tell them You were right. I'm evil. I'm pathetic. I only hurt people – I'm toxic. I poison everything around me sooner or later until there's nothing left but all the pollution I spat out. You don't have to hate me – I already hate myself more than you ever possibly could.
His mind drifts to the last time he felt happy – and tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes because he realizes just how long he's been since he's actually felt happy without being fucked out of his mind on worlds of chemical shit which only lasts until the sun is reborn. He knows he should stop thinking about all these things because the waves of crying keep crashing in stronger and stronger; he really just wants something else to cram up his nose because the reality of his existence is he can't stand being himself.
He realizes that he's alone – and the people who would normally make him not alone can't fill the black hole he's become. They just fade away, into the mist that they all fade into, slowly at first, then rapidly disappearing into obscured distances. The fact he really is alone starts to sink in, and then the choking starts, the air no longer there, and he's alone and crying and knows no one hears his suffocating screaming – no one cares – or, at least, they shouldn't. He remembers admitting than when he's happy – high – he's inconsiderate, selfish, rude, crass, offensive – and when he isn't high the hate sits in his entrails like a bottle of gut-rot, and he can't build bridges because he knows no one can love someone who can't even love themselves.
He arrives home – and starts writing, the choked-back tears now streaming, still hidden behind sunglasses even though it's pitch-black outside and no one is watching him. Before he starts writing, he tries to come up with a reason – any reason to not euthanize his suffering, his pain - and begins:
"And then the lava rising in his throat reached the tear ducts, and the flood began..."
Alone. He knew the word, but it was always shades of grey and negated by others telling him he had family, he had friends, he had people to count on. Now it sat on him like the world on Atlas' shoulders – crushing, and the tears want to come but he's hiding behind Wayfarers and choking them back because the only thing more pathetic than a broken person is a visibly broken person.
He thinks about his uncle. He thinks about the fact that he's become food for the worms - that never in all of space and time's infinite span, he will never ever feel his hands on his shoulders, reassuring, bolstering him. He'll never be able to remember what his face looked like as clearly as he used to, until he's just a blurred image in his mind which is only going to fade and grow fainter until he can't even remember why he loved him so fucking much.
He looks at his reflection in the windows of the bus station. The innocent girl's eyes from last night remind him of the eyes of another – and he feels vile – a monster – unlovable because he's just too fucking broken to even be able to love another. The drugs made him happy, and with serotonin now in karmic short supply, the high no longer radiating from his nostrils, he realizes how pathetic he is – what a waste of a life, a life spent inhaling drugs and snorting drugs and trying to forget just how fucked up he is. He tries to forget all the people who remind him of that – who were right – who saw the monster in him, hand-claws soaked in blood – and wants to tell them You were right. I'm evil. I'm pathetic. I only hurt people – I'm toxic. I poison everything around me sooner or later until there's nothing left but all the pollution I spat out. You don't have to hate me – I already hate myself more than you ever possibly could.
His mind drifts to the last time he felt happy – and tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes because he realizes just how long he's been since he's actually felt happy without being fucked out of his mind on worlds of chemical shit which only lasts until the sun is reborn. He knows he should stop thinking about all these things because the waves of crying keep crashing in stronger and stronger; he really just wants something else to cram up his nose because the reality of his existence is he can't stand being himself.
He realizes that he's alone – and the people who would normally make him not alone can't fill the black hole he's become. They just fade away, into the mist that they all fade into, slowly at first, then rapidly disappearing into obscured distances. The fact he really is alone starts to sink in, and then the choking starts, the air no longer there, and he's alone and crying and knows no one hears his suffocating screaming – no one cares – or, at least, they shouldn't. He remembers admitting than when he's happy – high – he's inconsiderate, selfish, rude, crass, offensive – and when he isn't high the hate sits in his entrails like a bottle of gut-rot, and he can't build bridges because he knows no one can love someone who can't even love themselves.
He arrives home – and starts writing, the choked-back tears now streaming, still hidden behind sunglasses even though it's pitch-black outside and no one is watching him. Before he starts writing, he tries to come up with a reason – any reason to not euthanize his suffering, his pain - and begins:
"And then the lava rising in his throat reached the tear ducts, and the flood began..."
