Tears Of London

Until I bleed out

ERIN

I was so happy she was gone. I've never seen such a drama queen. She's nice, but only when she shuts up. Maybe I was an asshole, but I felt like she was so deeply worried that it became annoying. Girl, you already hit me with your fucking car, now let me breathe a minute.
- You know her ? Malcolm asked, taking a bite of his burger. The white girl, I mean.
I nodded my head, splashing my face at the kitchen sink. I was feeling like my brain was on fire, that it was going to explode. It is the last time I snort two dash of ketamine in a row.
- They all left ? I asked, referring to the guests.
- Yeah, it's been a long time. Man, I need a hand to tidy up the living room.
- Tomorrow, I simply declared, then I headed to my room.
- Screw you, Erin.
- Screw you too, brother.
I heard my friend laughing before I closed the door. A smell of stale and sex directly welcomed me when I entered. My bed is a mess and the floor is covered with dirty clothes that I have not recognized. Another bastard has mistaken my room for a fuck room.
I grumbled and opened the window to let the fresh air in. Then, I perched on the ledge and climbed onto the roof. Sitting cross-legged at the top of the Hutt, I let the wind clean my lungs.
My leg was hurting me hard. My head was on fire. At this stage, I couldn't feel it anymore.
I touched my cheeks with panick.
My eyes were spinning wide. I felt like I was going to fall. And never get up again. So I progressively started to have a panic attack.
She took hold of my lungs, twisted them in all directions before squeezing them with all her might.
And then, the bad thoughts came.
They finished me out. They made me feel guilty about leaving my mother that week-end. About stealing from the local supermarket. About being a faggot, as my father called me, the one he hated.
They lastly made me call myself a piece of shit and hate who I was even more.
It's always at this point that I regret taking drugs. The only moment I regret. Because that is the moment I hate myself the most, when I'm sweating until I blur myself. When breathing becomes hard.
I tighten my grip on my throat, I squeeze to try to breathe easier.
Once, I thought I could kill myself. There were times when I wanted to fall of this roof. Jump. And wait down there, until I bleed out. But it  was always here to save me before I act. It, was singing. I know that sounds like a motherfucking cliché, but singing was my sobering potion. When I don't manage to fix a bad trip, I only have to climb on my roof and roll up in a bowl, then sing to myself. And I feel better.
So that's how it ended. I was on the top of the Hutt, lying with my knees curled up against my chest and my bloody leg. And I started to sing, low.
And I breathed.