I didn't take my meds today.
Two days ago Caitlin Adams asked if I was bipolar because I was into her on Monday but by Friday I had figured out that she was too demanding.
But those words, that question... it seeped into my soul and tarnished my tho...
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THE COLOURS of the room spoke of a greyscale painting. Walls in the shade of soft stone now had clear marks where the plaster had been punched through and rebuilt, graffiti barely visible in the paintwork under the microscope of the seeping sunlight, floorboards cracked and dented from years of heavy footwork.
I never noticed the struggles his bedroom went through before but seeing it empty, airy and echoey made me notice them in the most obvious way. This wasn't the first time he's trashed it and it's not likely to be the last.
With needles in my chest I bolted downstairs, following after him. A mound of him lay on the gravel beneath his bedroom window. His clothes. His furniture. His sentimental items. All piled high, trashed and abandoned.
He towered over the pile, his shadow casting over his possessions. His mouth moved in non-detectable mutterings. I wasn't sure who he was talking to or perhaps he was just answering the voices in his own head. Sometimes he spoke in English, other times another language. He pulled out a box of long stick matches and proceeded to take one out.
"Woah, wait." I leaned forward.
I could already see the fire burning in his eyes and the match hadn't even been lit yet.
"Fearne, I have to burn it all." He seemed so sure of himself which I totally didn't understand because right now he was so lost.
"But some of it we can save." I knelt down next to the pile, digging through the personal contents of his bedroom.
I grabbed the box, the one filled with his confidential files and pulled it away from the pile. I noted a few stray framed photographs he once displayed on his desk, the glass was shattered now but the photographs were still good so I put them safely in the box. I wanted to save it all but I knew that was impossible.
"No Fearne it all has to go." He swiped the match against the rough edge on the box, fire sizzling against the end of the wooden stick. "Move."
"But wait, think about this. What if it doesn't burn and they find something linked to you?" He cocked his head to one side, as a dog would when hearing something interesting. Then he shook the thought out of his mind.
"Stop it." He warned. "It will burn."
I grabbed his soccer jersey and the of mice and men book. Furiously digging through the pile for anything else I could save.
"Move or I'll set you on fire for helping them." I stood up immediately and backed away, holding the heavy box. He dropped his match on the pile sending books aflame instantly which resulted in the whole thing spreading wildly.
We watched it burn. Thirty degree heat bouncing off the surface of our skin, carnal flames reflecting on our faces, sparks pirouetting and ash clogging our lungs. His whole life crumbling right before our eyes, leaving nothing but a skeleton of charcoaled wood and ash.
