Insomniacs (#1)

22. safe

Aria.

Sundays have always been lazy days.

And with the pounding headache that had accompanied my hangover, it felt like a lazier Sunday than most.

Each morning when I wake up, there's always that heaviness embedded in the depths of my stomach and lurking in the corners of my mind. Its been a constant since they died.

I can always feel when I'm getting worse. This fine line between falling or just the regular nothingness.

And that small amount of time between the fall, is infuriating. Not being able to prevent what you know is coming and not having enough energy to do so because it's already starting.

It's dread and disappointment and annoyance because you've been here before and you'll know how it'll go. The continuation of an endless cycle and every time it comes around, a bit more of you breaks.

So you're just waiting for yourself to shatter a little more. I was just silently letting myself be thrown to the fire because I was too tired and desensitised to the flames to refute.

I'd passed out after Luca dropped me home last night. He waited outside my bathroom as I showered and changed into warm, not-wet clothes. I barely got through it without falling asleep.

And when I dropped to my bed, he tucked the covers around me, I think. I'm not so sure because I was dozing off already. He'd said something when pressing a kiss to my cheek but I hadn't heard.

I was out like a light. The first full night of sleep after weeks and weeks. Alcohol does that to you.

Luca was gone when I woke up but a sticky note was stuck to my forehead. Stuck to my forehead.

I groaned, pulling it off my head and blinking as I attempted to read it.

i'm training tomorrow. i want you there.
- fuckface

A small smile had tugged at my lips as I set the note down on my bedside table. It'd be a good distraction. I needed to postpone my falling as much as possible.

I kept myself wrapped up in the plush cocoon of blissfulness that my bed provided me with, just doing nothing and not thinking anything.

I didn't mean to get so drunk yesterday but I hadn't realised how much I wanted it until I started. How much the carelessness and lack of anxiety and all things bad was so addicting. It was just so nice and who cares when it makes you feel good?

Isn't that what we should grasp at? Death is inevitable, whether it be by lung cancer from smoking or alcohol poisoning from tequila. You could have never touched a drink in your life, abstained from drugs and all things unhealthy but end up dead at 25 from cancer. Or at 14 from a car accident.

What's the concern if it makes you feel good in that moment? We all die anyways.

The ideal was much more enticing as of late.

A knock on my door snapped me out of it and in walked through mum, before I'd answered. She held a cup of coffee in her hands and a bowl of some fruit as she sat besides me, setting them on my table.

"Hey, darl. Hows the hangover?" She asked as I sat up.

"Just a headache." I answered, wrapping my hands around the warmness of the coffee before taking a sip.

Her eyes flicked over my face for a moment, that look plastered clearly on her features; the one that looked like she was readying herself for whatever she was about to say to me.