If The World Ends Tomorrow | ONGOING

𝓉𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎 𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑒

𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟹𝚛𝚍

I don't know how I got here. 

On this roof, it's not mine it's planks are blue instead of a charcoal gray. It's alot cleaner than mine to, the leaves are cleaned out of the gutter, there aren't any half used ciagrettes in random corners, I don't feel like bugs are crawling all over me chewing my skin off. 

Maybe I'd appreciate it more if I was sober, wish i most certainly wasn't. This is me, I really do run to alcohol for my problems. A red solo cups sits in my hand I've lost count of hwo many I've drinken tonight, or today the last time I looked at the clock it was 30 to midnight and that was some time ago.

I don't know what set it off. 

I was fine, fine enough at least, then I wasn't.

Drink, it'll make it all better.

He won't leave his voice echoing my brain like a fire alarm.

Drink.

Drink.

Drink.

Drink.

It'll make it all better.

I'm past drunk, past wasted, past everything. I feel like throwing up, a feeling that only grows as the liquid in my stomach sloshes around everytime I move. 

At least the stars look pretty, it's hazy, the corners of my vision blurring, the stars create zig zags in my vision the only semi clear object being the moon. 

I might pass out, hopefully I'll roll off and snap my neck on the steps of the porch. That way it'll be a tragic "accident" and not my own weaknesses.

I laugh, no, I cry, no, I do both. 

There's a smile on my face it hurts my cheeks, the laugh comes my throat, somewhere along the lines it becomes a sob, then a cough, then a sob again. 

The only thing that keeps me from making effort to hide my sounds, is the fact that the music is loud as shit, I could probably here it perfectly a block away, I could scream from the top of my lungs, and no one would say a thing, that is if they even noticed.

I'm pathetic but that's old news.

Drink.

I want close my eyes and never open them again, thats old news too.

It'll make it all better.

I want to get in a car crash that kills me on impact, again old news.

Drink.

I wanna die, even older news.

It'll make it all better.

I swipe my hands over my eyes, they come back wet each time. 

Drink.

I can't stop it.

It'll make it all better.

Someone make it stop.

"Giselle," A voice whispers reaching my brain, "Giselle," it gets louder, "Giselle," it's in my right ear, soft but firm hands move my hands from my eyes. My vision focuses not on the stars but a face, a familiar face, brown hair, thick eyebrows, full lips, face made in heaven.

"Eden," I croak. 

It can't be though, why is is he here.

"Giselle," he sounds relieved, like he'd expected to find me in a worse state.