Torn Souls

11. Dear fucking diary.

The roses vanished, they didn't stay after Dream left. However, Yesterday was still wonderful. Not today thought. Today was hell. Tuesday was hell. (Life was hell). He was gone for one day how could he miss him this much? He walked off of campus that day with what one could presume as a whole rainforest worth of paper in his hands. He'd ask for help, from anyone. They all scoffed, laughed, and walked away. The sounds of their laugh sounded more sirens blaring beside him and felt like needles in his ears. It made his blood boil. He couldn't say he was too tired to care. He almost wished he was sleep deprived once again -for this very reason. If he didn't care, he wouldn't come to hate himself quite as much as he did.

By the time he got to work, his shoulders ached with the burden of the books he was caring in his bag. He had to work the register and annoyance colided with dread. The feeling only spread with anger through out his stomach. He wondered if it would leave a burning hole on his inner flesh. Other than the occasional gay with enough anxiety to distribute to everyone else, humans were so incredibly fucking rude.

"Oh... you're gay?" One of the numerous questions he got in the day. Just because he "looked the part" with a small pride pin on the strap of his apron. They weren't wrong. He wasn't ashamed. It was just the way they said it. They always said it with pure hate. As if they could throw up on the spot. This is what caused the guilt and shame, even if it wasn't there before.

"Can I have someone else take my order? Thats kind of... against what I believe." They'd say.

"People like you are disgusting." They'd say.

Anything you could imagine, they'd say.

January 16th

I hate people. I could not describe the pure hatred I feel for them sometimes. My professors word's twist my mind until it's in a confused knot. And after, gave what seemed like pounds of homework as 'practice' (as they call it). Maybe it is in hopes to unravel the growning knot they had caused. I wonder if they knew that the only way to get it all done was staying up for countless hours. My 'friends' flock to me for answers but call me stupid when I cannot not provide them. If this world was an ocean, then I am most certainly drowning, and college is the anchor pulling me down. Except the small occasions of joy were air bubbles that replenish my lungs, keeping me alive just long enough to suffer time and time again.

Just like classes. Why couldn't they understand that the amount of homework they give is next to unbearable? Don't they see the eyebags that built up under their students' eyes? Don't they see the paleness in our faces caused by the lack of sun because we just sit in our dorms or apartments doing work? Don't they see that they're waisting our time? Or do they just not care? Or is this their revenge for the cranky teachers that they once had?

We just pick at ourselves. We pick at ourselves until our skin breaks. We pick at ourselves until we're bleeding out. We pick at ourselves until our bones are bare.
We learn to hate ourselves and tear ourselves down. And no one is there to pull us back up. And some of them turn to tearing others down with them.

Someone please help us. The kids are dying. The kids want to die. Help them first. I'll wait. I'll take care of me by myself.

George x

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"Dream? Where are you? I miss you terribly. I'd consider you a good friend. I need a friend right now." George spoke into the stale air. He picked at a sequin on the pillow beside him, waiting for an answer he knew wouldn't come.
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January 17th

This world is nothing more than a fucking lonely, never ending cycle. The same words, the same phrases, all repeating its self like a broken record. Along with playing the same thing, its scratchy. It feels like it's reaching inside your head and pulling your eardrums out. Tell the record to break. I don't want to hear the sad song of the word anymore. But I dont think I have a choice. I do, but I'll stay away from that choice for a while. It's the last resort.

I'm a puppet and life is just the puppet master. It dooms over me, hovering, pulling my strings making me do the dance of life. The strings are even connected to the corners of my mouth, pulling them up into a smile and not letting them come back down. No matter how many times I do the dance, no matter how tired I get, it just drags me along.

I keep saying his name. I think he left me. I wouldn't blame him but it'd be nice to have someone around. I just need a comfort. Do you think he'll come back? Maybe if i draw him a bath full of tears and pour fucking bubbles in it he'll come back. He does that, disappears. I'm not sure where he goes. I've haven't asked yet. He's a mystery, and I don't feel like being sherlock right now. I have too many words to read. Words that have no meaning to me. Words that I won't even remember next week. (College sucks.)

George x
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January 18th

This is why I don't get attached. I get attached, I get hurt. I get hurt, I get sad. Im sick of being sad. I don't want to be sad but it's all I know. I have my good moments. Everyone does. But the sad ones shouldn't outweigh them. At least not as much as they do. I suppose It's better than being completely numb, unable to feel anything at all.

I didn't want to get attached. I knew where it would lead. And yet, I lead myself there anyways. But he made it so hard not to.

He's probably busy. I'm just overthinking. Busy with what? I haven't got a clue. He hasn't told me much. Just about the flowers. I'm beginning to miss the smell of them. I'm beginning to miss the soft pedals under the tips of my fingers. I'm beginning to miss the person they represented.

I just need sleep. This whole journal is a mess. I can't seem to stay on one topic for more than a minute. The wars between guilt and remorse and love and friendship won't settle. But if I sleep, it might just stop. Im sorry, I wish I could be more clear, more discriptive. I wish I could be better. Im sorry.

Goodnight. And good night to you too moon.

George x
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George would try just one more time. He needed Dream.

"Dream? Please I need you here. I don't know how I did it without you before but I need you now." He pressed the back of his head against the wall. "I don't even know if you can hear me." He whispered, blinking away the wetness forming in his eyes. "I don't think you can hear me. But I need you here."

But there was no answer. Not a knock. Not a whisper. Not even a slight breeze rippled through the apartment. It was just as still and silent, like Dream had never even been there in the first place.

His window had a soft glow from the dainty, delicate fairy lights hung around the frame. The city was in better spirits than he was. It was bright, like all the nights before. It was loud, like it normally was. He wished he had more energy. He wished he had enough energy to simply carry his cumbersome body just to his bed. But George stayed curled up in his window, paralyzed with exhaustion. Every time he willed himself to move, even just to flinch the tip of his fingers, he sank deeper and deeper into the windowsill. His eyes fought to stay open, each blink seeming to add five pounds to his eyelids.

His body finally gave in on itself, he drifted off into a far away place. Somewhere peaceful, somewhere kind and welcoming. Where the trees grew tall and full, flowers were vibrant with the colors he could see. Where the sunlight was always golden and where he saw his ghostly friend.