Dear whoever,

3

JULY 20

Dear whoever,

It's been only 3 days since I wrote in this thing. Is that good? I don't know. Technically it's been 4 days. It's a little past ten o'clock at night. In less than two hours it'll be tomorrow.

I can't sleep tonight. If I could I definitely wouldn't be writing in this stupid thing. But every time I close my eyes it's like I'm back there. And I don't want to go back. I can't fucking deal with going back right now. Any other night I would've just drowned myself in a bottle of Jack Daniel's. But tonight I don't want to have to escape those memories. I don't want to keep running away from them. Because the more I run from them, the faster they chase me. I just want them to go away.

Today... well tonight I feel: afraid

afraid of actually admitting that I'm afraid.

afraid that things won't get better

afraid that I'll hurt myself

I looked down at the words I'd just scribbled on the page. I felt like throwing the book through the open window. I felt like throwing myself out of the window with it. But not really myself, just the things that made me myself. My thoughts. My insecurities. My feelings.

I wish I didn't have feelings.

I wish I hadn't written three entries; I wish I could stop myself from writing more. But I knew that this wasn't like soccer or guitar or like all the other things that I had started doing but quit. This was different.

I was going to write in this goddamn notebook so much that I would need another. Because I had too many feelings. Too many to write down. And they were all bombarding me at once. Desperate to escape my lips.

I shut the notebook and shoved it under my bed so hard I heard it hit the opposite wall.

I rubbed a hand down my face frustratedly. I need a distraction. One that wouldn't result in a hangover and a nameless women in the morning. Jerome colored his lungs grey with the cigarettes he smoked every three hours. As the ashes and smoke flew away with the wind, so did his stress. Quinn played her piano every day. Her fingers would dance along the keys beautifully and she'd close her eyes and smile a little. She got transported into another world. One that was better than the one she was living.

It seemed like everyone found a way to get away. And I was stuck here. Stuck with a cruel reality that held me down with it's foot against my throat choking me. Pressing down hard enough for me to wheeze but not hard enough for me to die.

I rushed towards my bathroom and tapped the sink's faucet. Cool water poured out of it and I used my hands to splash some onto my face repeatedly. After a while my shirt was drenched and my eyes were stinging a little. The counter had little puddles of water surrounding it and my the tips of my brown hair were sticking to my forehead.

I looked at myself in the mirror with a blank expression, thankful that it was impossible to distinguish tears from tap water.

I walked back into my room and took off my shirt while grabbing my laptop off the nightstand frantically. I flicked on the light switch next to my door and the little reading lamp turned on. But I wasn't planning on reading. Not tonight. The Count of Monte Cristo wouldn't be enough this time.

A text wouldn't be enough this time.

Her voice wouldn't be enough this time.

I had to see her. See her wide smile and bright eyes and crazy curls. I had to wait about 9 hours until I saw everyone else's sun. But if I Skype called Quinn right now, and she answered, I would see my sun. The sun's rays could not compare with the warmth she filled me with. Without the sun I could still see. But without Quinn I'd be good as blind.