adults next door ; tbp chatfic

griffin's corner of the world

GRIFFIN STAGG

NEW YORK CITY
DECEMBER 29TH, 04:50 AM

probably the first and last 1st person pov i'll ever do

i thought it added a little spice to the storyline

First, it's a Saturday night thing when you feel cool like a gangster or a rockstar, just something to kill the boredom, you know? They call it a chippie, a small habit. It feels so good, you start doing it on Tuesdays... then Thursdays... then it's got you.

Shut up, Jim Carroll. You're a hot drug addicted whore that lives rent free in my mind.

I don't know what happened after I ran out of the bathroom. I don't know why Vance punched Billy. I don't know why Billy yells at me when I'm high out of my mind on our kitchen floor. I don't know why I'm starting to get addicted to weed and nicotine and pills. I don't know why I'm losing myself.

I don't know why.

Everyone around me constantly tells me I need to stop smoking, stop taking one too many pills, stop this and stop that. It's easier said than done. I couldn't even tell you why I wanted to start, nevermind wanting to stop.

Everyone thinks it's better than it actually is. They think I still have time to put it down and call it a day. But I can't seem to.

I can't remember what happened on the night of December 26th. All I know is that everyone is pissed at me, and Gianna didn't get to screen her new movie. I still wonder if it was a good movie or not. I still wonder if Dylan Lutzi's character hopefully either got hung or overdosed on laxatives.

Maybe I hope that more than I wonder.

I sit on my kitchen floor with a joint in my hand, and a scented candle next to me that's Billy's favourite scent. I can't smell it over the strong smell of smoke. All I can smell is smoke. All I can taste is smoke. That's how it is now.

I hear the bedroom door open, then a small pitter patter on the floor that progressively gets louder and louder. Then Billy showed up in front of me. I looked up, to see dark circles under his eyes and a white plaster over his nose. I already know he's about to yell at me, that's all he does now. All he does is yell. Sometimes I wonder if he proposed to me just for aesthetics, or a storyline, or some other fucked up thing. I don't think he truly wants me.

"Put it down," he scolds. What a buzzkill. He says something else to me and then crouches down in front of me. I can't tell what he said, and his face is starting to look blurry. Is that his face or my vision? "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

I truly can't answer that question because I don't know. There's nothing in my life that's bad so I have no reason to be doing this to myself. My life is fine. I have a loving - kind of - fiance, good friends, and a good job. There's nothing in my life that's bad. So I should be happy, right?

So why am I not happy?

I shrugged my shoulders at his question and he wasn't happy about that. His fists balled up and he scoffed. Maybe he wanted to hit me. I wouldn't be surprised, I would want to hit me too. But he didn't. He sat down in front of me and took my joint out of my hand, throwing it on the cold kitchen tile. I didn't say anything, I didn't really have anything to say. Someone was bound to do that at some point.

But then I look up from my hands and no one is in front of me. Billy isn't there. And soon after that the candle goes out.

I lean my head back and bang it against the cupboard behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut and tears start to fall. Lots of them. I can't control it, they just keep falling down my cheeks, on to my shirt. Then I'm sitting there, crying like a little bitch.

Why me? Is this God's payback at me for being gay? I don't know. But it hurts, sometimes physically and always mentally.

I just want it to stop hurting.

I can't sleep anymore. It's either I wake up every 30 minutes or have a nightmare that keeps me awake for the next 4 days. The pills the doctors give me don't help with it, they just fulfill my needs for drugs.

I see things. Like Billy sitting in front of me telling me to stop, yelling at me to stop. But when it's really Billy, the real life one, he's kind and gentle. I don't mean to get mad at him, like I did at Gianna's premiere.

When it's the real Billy, my Billy, he sits there and hugs me while I cry. He doesn't yell like the fake one does. But sometimes I can't tell the difference between real and hallucinations. It's all too real. Seeing things and hearing things, it's too real. Or maybe it isn't.

With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything's far away. Everything's a copy, of a copy, of a copy.

Who am I, Tyler Durden? Maybe. I feel like him. But he's right, with insomnia you're never really asleep, but you're never really awake. It's all one fucked up lucid dream that messes with your mind.

Maybe it's the insomnia tying in with the weed and the nicotine and the pills or maybe I'm just a schizophrenic, insomniac, little bitch.

I don't want to live like this anymore. I can't live like this anymore.

me after projecting myself into griffin

also double upload love me pls