I don't know when my eyes opened, or if they ever closed, but I feel like they have been focused on the same thing for hours.
The roses wilting on my window sill. The more the sun peaks over the hills in the white sky, the more I can see of their drooping petals, resting on the painted wood like twisting drops of blood. How long have they been there? How long have I been here? Not blinking. Not breathing. Slowly falling apart, petal by petal.
My head is throbbing and my body aches and I can't stop staring at the roses. I want to look away, but I can't. They're making me feel sick and my stomach churn and my mouth dry up and
I lean over the edge of my mattress and throw up on the floorboards. Nothing really comes up. I feel empty, anyway.
With a start, my neck twists around to survey the room, heart in my throat along with the bile. He's gone. There is no one here. and now there is a puddle of yellowish, brownish vomit on the floor and I don't think I mind the acrid smell as long as I never have to move again.
As long as I never have to think again.
Don't think don't think don't think
I push away the hollowness inside of me, assuring myself it is just the hangover. I just need a glass of water. Or ten. Or maybe just a shower. Yes, a shower would be nice.
If only I could move.
Everywhere I look makes me feel wrong and like there are things inside of me that are sharp and gnarled, but every time I close my eyes, it's worse. I push and push and push it away.
And I lay here a little longer.
YOU ARE READING
clementine
Teen FictionLet's get this clear; I am not Clementine Ross. I was not her sister, or her best friend in the world, or even a person that she opened up to completely when she was devastatingly drunk one night. And every time someone solemnly asks (and this happe...
