Insomnia {Fransykes} (Boyxboy)

Two

I'm having trouble sleeping again. Thinking too much and thinking too little, I suppose. I'm drifting, I realized. I'm drifting and I can't seem to find a reason to stay. It got better for a while but I just can't quite grasp the concept of happiness. I, well, I don't know how to be happy. Or accept happiness. I've always been sad. Even when I thought I was happy I was sad. So the thought of being actually truly happy is not only terrifying it's overwhelming. And the thought that I might be getting better scares the shit out of me because while I know we all have bad days when I get bad I get so bad.

When things were constantly bad I adjusted. I bled a little gave a little but I carried on. Now that I'm stumbling and clawing my way towards happiness when I get bad I hit rock bottom. Suicide has always been a thought but never really an option to me when I was bad. Now when I get bad suicide becomes less of an idea and more a plan. Every bad day I seem to find myself at the bottom of a bottle of pills or drowning in alcohol or dragging razors deeper and deeper into my wrists but it's never deep enough because I always wake up.

But I never really wake up, do I? From this sick twisted dream of this reality I've concocted in my screwed up brain. There's no happy ending because this world doesn't exist, does it? He doesn't exist, does he? That's what they tell me. They tell me I'm crazy and that my light at the end of tunnel is someone I made up but I know he's not, and if he is then all of this is because he's the most real thing in this world, the only pure thing in this world, his voice from underneath me as our skin melts together is the only thing that keeps me around.

But it doesn't seem to be strong enough this time. Because I'm drifting. I'm floating away and I can't find the will to swim back because it's so much easier to be sad and hopeless and I hate it, because always in my life I take the easy way out, I have every one of my bad days that he's found me and sobbed his eyes out in the hospital but I can't fucking help it. I try to be strong, for him, for us, but this thing inside me is crushing me and tearing me apart at the same time. I can't handle it anymore.

I know I have to handle it though. Because he's my world but I'm his. He's looked me in the eye and shown me the scars carved into his ink stained skin and told me if I die so will he. Maybe we could be happy then, buried together. That's what I want, really. I want him with me I want his forever but he can't see that because this life that I never wanted is overcoming me and I'm being swept away from the only reason I started in the first place.

There was a girl who kissed me but it was nothing like him, nothing like the way he kissed me, nothing like the way he felt, and I knew he saw and I tried to find him but everything I knew about him and I didn't know where he'd go. I still can't sleep. I know how I can, though. Because maybe this time it'll work.

Sleep's a fickle mistress, though, and knowing my luck they'll somehow find a way to piece me back together.

Ed Sheeran was playing somewhere, singing about angels.

It's too cold outside, for angels to fly...

Too bad I'm not an angel. Maybe if I was when I tried they'd crush my skull against the pavement for even thinking that I could escape. I just want to sleep. I want to sleep with him by my side and I want him to know that he's my everything.

Walking up to the roof top I couldn't even think. I was living in a dream world, so was this reality? I don't like this hazy feeling, the way faces blur out. Is this happening right now?

I can't see the stairs beneath my feet.

I can't see the sky, probably ugly and gray.

I only see him, standing at the edge and sniffling. I tell him what's happened, I explain it all. I tell him I love him. At least, I think I do. I can't hear my own voice, but my ears are ringing. I grabbed his hand. Maybe we can fall together.

And he looks at me with betrayal in his beautiful eyes as we fall, fall, fall...

And I take a shuddering breath through broken ribs and blood strays over my lips but he's hovering above me, and I squeeze his lifeless hand with my last bit of strength.

I knew this was happen.

The good die young, so they say. Of course he died and I'm still trapped here. Why won't they just let me go? It hurts. Everything hurts. But he hates me. And that hurts the most. Maybe I deserve this. I hurt such a pure and beautiful creature I deserve pain and suffering and he deserves peace.

But I'm still selfish enough to ask to die.

The hospital say I can recover. Say I'm critical but they're optimistic. I refuse to open my eyes unless he's there with me, because I know the world will be a colorless haze seen through a mess of tears if I do. I can't even cry for him. Can't cry for the love of my life. I'm that broken.

But not everyone is as heartless as I am. Euthanasia is a beautiful thing, and they buried me next to him, they kept his hand unwillingly entwined with mine.

People come to visit our joint grave, and I scream as they disregard him and praise me. I was nothing. He, he was a beautiful angel. My Oliver was the best person anyone could hope to be, I was unworthy to so much as look at the ground he walked on.

So every day I give him a rose, as a reminder of our first date, where I gave him a bouquet and he called me cheesy, and I called him a princess, and we tossed them one by one into a river, and he first opened up to me, and told me he hated roses. From then on I bought him tulips or daisies or whatever was the prettiest they had.

I only bought him roses twice. Once when I first told him I loved him. And again when it was too late.