So I’m a tad bit tipsy right now, and I’m about to write a purely fictional piece about my version of the epitome of trauma. I have a vague idea of what I’ll write about, but otherwise it’ll be a surprise to me too. I’ve never written anything while *under the influence* before so this should be interesting. Hope y’all enjoy! (Oh, and I better throw a trigger warning in here because alcohol makes me write about dangerous things).
The boy sat down on the edge of the bed, exhausted. Held his left wrist in his right hand, palm up, staring at the pink, milky, pearly lines tracing their way horizontally across, left to right. He shook his head like he was trying to remove a hat, handless, and swung his legs up and under the covers. Of course, his thoughts soon turned to her. They always did.
She was wrong for him, and he knew it. That’s why he told her so such a long twelve days ago, even knowing her fragility. He still loved her, of course, because how could he not? She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and all it took was a split second glimpse, a snatch of her laugh, a whiff of her scent, and he’d be grinning. Until he remembered she was no longer his, because of a decision he’d made, that he was still questioning every day. If it hurt so much, how could it be right? But all logic said that it had to be done.
A rattling from the phone on his bedside table interrupted his thoughts, tethered by its charger.
“You up? I’m scared.” It was her.
“Of course, what’s wrong?”
“I found Dad’s gun, and I can’t stop thinking about using it. It would be so easy. And I wouldn’t hurt anymore.”
“Shit, get it away from you! Please!”
“I can’t. It’s taken over my mind.”
“I’m coming over, don’t you dare move until I get there.”
Vaulting out of bed, finding a pair of dirty sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt, the boy threw open the window, dropped a full twelve feet, rolled at the bottom, unlocked his bike. Though there was snow on the ground, he could not feel the cold, his mind was racing and far too full. Six miles away, he could make it in twenty minutes if he pedaled hard.
The whole way, snow in his eyes mingling with hot tears so that he couldn’t tell which was which, but the street lights left streaks in his mind. Not much traffic at this time of night, so he ran the reds and risked the tickets, and he arrived sixteen minutes later.
He threw his bike down in the front yard, tried the front door – locked, obviously. He found a pebble and lobbed it to her window, which was lit up in a golden glow. No response. His heart sinking, he ran to the wall and pushed off, managing to grasp the sill above. He pulled himself up, opened the unlocked window, and tumbled into his personalized nightmare.
She was on her knees, pistol muzzle in her mouth, tears tearing tracks down her cheeks, shaking gently.
“No!! Put it down, please!”
The tears accelerated, the shaking was no longer gentle.
“You can’t do this, you were meant for so much more.” The boy didn’t know what to say to the girl, but every fiber of his being longed to tear the gun away from her.
Her eyes squeezed shut, she shuddered, and he knew. The next second took a decade, as her lungs sighed, her elbows dipped, and her fingers squeezed, all while he lunged and reached towards her. Fingers outstretched in a futile attempt to knock it away, eyes wide in disbelief and horror, he did what he could.
Her golden head, delicate face swollen with distress, erupted. A crimson crown sprung from neck, a final shock reverberated up and down her perfect body, clothed in the boy’s high school hoodie and a pair of his old boxers.
The boy felt it. Physically, emotionally, warm stickiness spattering his face, bathing his unclothed torso, cold from the open window, sweaty from the ride over. He collapsed into her as she collapsed into him, and he held her. He held her to his body, just like he used to, but she no longer melted into him, but hung from him.
The world turned to watercolor, and fast forwarded. Suddenly her parents were in the room, shouting confusedly. Then he was in the shower, water scalding his body but not caring to change it. People were talking to him, telling him it wasn’t his fault. They were talking to someone else. He was on a couch, answering questions to a clipboard with robotic precision. His heart was on fire and nothing could quench it. Eventually, seconds later, he was back in school, staring through the teachers and whiteboards at the crimson crown. Parents yelling, holding red letters close to him, but he could not react, only stare through it at the crimson crown.
Then it was raining, soaking his starchy suit, tie hanging limply like a noose, and he was staring at the sharp rocks below him, seeing only the crimson crown. But then he saw something different. He saw her. He saw her pink tongue licking chocolate ice cream, her candy lips splitting into a smile while her eyes lit up in a charming twinkle full of life at his dumb joke. He saw her golden hair flow over her left shoulder as she flipped it with a smirk and devilish gleam, before pressing him into the blue sheets below, her soft body above. He saw her, lines on her face now, a child holding each hand, one boy and one girl. The boy looked like him, and the girl looked like her. He saw her, gray and proud, twinkling eyes smiling from the seat next to him as the children walked across the stage, shaking hands and grasping certificates. Then he saw the crimson crown again. And the smile that had crept across his face violently vanished. The watercolor world tilted around him, tumbling around him, the sharp rocks rushing up to meet him, and he saw nothing.