If The World Ends Tomorrow | ONGOING

𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇

𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟾𝚝𝚑

I'm home, don't ask me how. My head hands off the side of my bare bed, my sheets are probably on the other side collecting dust, I stare at the beer stain on the wall, it looks like a star, my favorite shape.

I can remember the night my wall gained that stain, the broken glass cutting into my hands and knees, there's still a faint scar on my left knee. I remember crying, screaming, I just can't remember why or I guess what ticked it off, though it's not hard to guess, I got a little too drunk, started thinking about everything that's wrong with me, all the reasons to hate myself.

It happens more often than I'd like to admit.

My head hurts, it's pounding, feels like it'll explode and seep out of my pores. 

The thing no one tells you is that no matter how much you drink or for how long you've been drinking, no one is immune to hangovers. That being said it cancels out easily enough with a glass of water and an extra Advil...or two.

I know I have a problem, but I could be worse, I could be getting myself high on pills, surely that's a lot worse than drinking and smoking. I mean, a little alcohol and weed never hurt anyone.

Right?

There I go again. Trying to make myself feel like I'm not the problem, like what I'm doing isn't problem. I'd like to call myself a good liar, but not even I'm that good.

The truth is if I don't die by my own hand, I'll die from the alcohol and weed, the latter isn't happening quick enough, hence the 6-month deadline.

I'm a sick person, pathetic too.

I wish I knew what's wrong with me, why I'm so fucked in the head.

My eyes catch on a picture ripped in half on the ground, I slide off my bed, the cool wood floor burns my calves and bare stomach. It's a picture of me in elementary school split right down the middle of my face. The two pieces have wrinkles all over as if they were crumpled up and then smoothed over, I can't remember doing this either, but it couldn't have been too long ago, I push the two pieces together.

Younger me stares, a smile on her face, innocence in her eyes, but then it shifts, her eyebrows lower, eyes narrow, her smile sours, it's half betrayal, half disgust.

"Don't look at me like that," I say, glaring right back. I might as well be a crazy woman. 

I am a crazy woman.

"Me being like this is just as much your fault as it is mine," I add as if splitting the blame with elementary school me will fix every wrong I've done to myself.

It doesn't.

I really am a sick person.

I roll over my back to the ground eyes to the ceiling. Grabbing a stray lighter from the ground, and a cigarette from my bra, who knows how it got there, I light it before bringing it to my lips, younger me's disapproval reeks filling the room in white-gray smoke. The smoke hits my lungs swirling before I blow it out, letting it cloud my vision.

"It's ok if you hate me," I say, "means we have something in common."