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"I don't give a fuck about you or what happens to you. I'd rather you be dead."
Kaliyah's voice. Over and over in my head like a broken-ass record. No pause, no skip button. Just her saying the same shit, stabbing me in the chest repeatedly. You'd think after the first hundred replays, I'd get numb to it, but nope. That shit still hits like the first time.
I didn't do shit to her. I swear on my nonexistent happiness. But she won't even let me explain. It's like my misery is her bedtime story. She got what she wanted—me feeling like absolute shit but for what? For fucking what?
Happiness doesn't exist. I'm convinced. Whoever came up with that word deserves to rot. It's a scam, a lie they tell you when you're five so you don't grow up realizing life is just a big-ass joke. And the punchline? You're the clown. I've been trying to fake it—pretend I'm fine, that I'm worth something....but deep down, I know I'm not. I never have been.
I won't be happy until I'm dead. And honestly? That's fine.
Tequila and psilocybin. My special cocktail. They've been waiting under my bed for over a year, calling my name like a toxic ex I can't block.
I guess today's the day I answer. I grab the bottle and the bag and sit on the edge of my bed. My hands are steady, but my head is spinning already, like my body knows what's about to happen.
I unscrew the tequila, the smell hitting me like a slap. "Well, cheers to the shittiest life ever lived," I say, popping the first pill and chasing it with a long, burning swig.
It burns going down, but it feels...right. Like this is what I was meant to do all along. I pop another pill. Another swig. My throat's on fire, but I don't care. By the time I'm done, the pills are gone, and the bottle's half-empty.
I grab my keys, stumble out to my car, and crank the engine. Jhene Aiko's Souled Out album comes on automatically because of course my misery has a soundtrack. "Limbo Limbo Limbo" starts playing, and I laugh so hard I almost choke. This feels like some sick cosmic joke, but I'm not even mad.
The tequila's working fast, blurring the edges of my vision. By the second red light, the psilocybin kicks in. The streetlights look like glowing worms, stretching and wriggling in the air. I laugh again because what else can you do when reality starts melting in front of you?
