Believe in Second Chances

5) Gone Tastes Awful

-Kylie

As the sun start reaching for our faces, we both know. There's no words to be said.

"Should I help you?"'

"I'll be ok."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Gone.

I taste the word. Tastes like regret, depression and Becca.

I fill up my lungs with Becca-less air. Then I breathe out. I can almost touch and feel the loneliness in the air.

The walls are echoing with emptiness and the floors are screaming of silence from the feet that won't touch them anymore. The air that I breathe is heavy and waiting to be shared again. I wander around the Becca-less apartment and breathe in Becca-less air while walking on Becca-less floors. Nothing is right anymore.

Nothing is right anymore.

Suddenly I feel myself cave in and I feel the cold, Becca-less floor hit against my body as I start crying.

What gone tastes like? Well, that's not important. For all I know it tastes fucking awful and the aftertaste is even worse.

For the next days that follows, the only places I go to is home and my working place. At work, well, I work.

But at home I just lie on the couch or in my bed. I don't do anything and suddenly hip bones are poking out of my skin. Suddenly as I happen to give myself a glance in the mirror, I see my cheekbones and my eyeballs poking too. And suddenly, everything else.

My kneecaps start to look fake, like I put something protect them there. My legs lose their shape and they're suddenly two lines under my body. The decision of eating is quickly washed away as I open the fridge and realize how long it's been since I took care of something there.

The smell hit my face but this pain isn't as painful as not hearing Becca's tired stumbling at night.

She does call! Sometimes! But she seems too happy so I never tell her what is going on with me.

I never show her the growing scars or tell her that The Dark is the only thing eating here. And it's eating me. Too depressing.

Oregon seems to do her pretty well. I don't really know what has happened or anything because as she calls, all I can concentrate on is her voice.

After each call, I break down, crash my head into the dirt white walls a few times and fall asleep with blood down my hands. Sometimes I do eat at work, but only for survival.

Empty days is all that I have. Squared in and all the same. Wake up, go to work, lunch break, work again, go home, be a depressing piece of shit or pretend to be air, try to sleep, finally sleep, repeat everything again.

Empty.

I'm going through all the days like a ghost and I don't remember anything from the day before.

But even if I did, why would it matter? How could my life get better with me remembering every minute of staring into the ceiling and breathing slowly?

It's Saturday today and one of those days when I just lie in bed and watch the sun change the shadowing of the empty, Becca-less room. It's been three weeks since she left.

I actually pulled myself together enough last night to count it out. Wow!

I sigh and change my position.

My cravings are stronger days like this. I have caved in for every craving except one, drugs. The damn syringes and pills are still with my old dealer. I haven't touched one yet.