Let's Call Her Emma
Complete and utter silence fills the room, echoing louder than any noice I've ever heard before. She stares at me with those big, hazel eyes with the just right amount of gold in them, making them different and exciting, like the yellow shine from a treasure chest. The nights are getting darker and autumn leaves are forming, leaving the green ones behind as a faint memory of what used to be. People will always look up at the multicoloured leaves, sigh at their beauty but miss the old ones, not because of who they are but because of what they brought with them. While autumn brings dark and cold spring brings warmth and light. That's why I like Autumn more. It's just a little misunderstood. An underdog, if you will. The poor in the world outside of society. More experienced, more alive, but looked down at because of the life they were born into.
"Are you even listening?" Her harsh words that fits so badly with her innocent face jerks me back to reality. Of course I wasn't listening. It's always the same anyway. Why would you drink when I told you to stop, why would you cheat on me, are you cheating on me, do you love me, yada yada. I don't care. I hum and that's all it takes for her to continue her rant about how this can't go on and how thing's gotta change if I want this to last. She is my rock, my cozy hole of satisfaction. The place I go to when I need to feel loved, cared for, reassured, pleasured. But I don't love her back. I take, but I never give. She knows it, I know it, yet she still argues.
I grab her face and look into what used to be the understanding eyes I supposedly fell for and kiss her. Her lids slide shut but I keep mine wide open, doing my business because I have to. She drops her hand to my ass and moans in whatever fake pleasure I give her. I'm bored in a situation that is supposed to be filled with 'emotion' and 'passion'. All I feel is a loud, clingy, sweaty girl sucking on my tounge in a way that would have been pleasurable if I was a horny seventeen year old. Another loud moan when she moves my hand to her chest area and makes me squeeze it. It reminds me of the monotone honk of a boat, but I continue, because I need someone to pick me up when I fall. Someone to clean up after me when I loose my shit and pills doesn't help.
A condom wrapper flies before my eyes and she is gone. I look down to see her chestnut locks by my semi-erection, smiling slightly before going to work on it. At least one part of me is working properly. She leads me to the bed where I 'take her' and she falls asleep nuzzled in my armpit. Carefully to not wake her up, I slide out of bed and to the kitchen. Two bottles of Jack Daniel's magically appears in my hand accompanied by a bottle of antidepressants. The wet porch is cold under my naked butt as I sit down on it. My watch said 2:54am when I downed the first few pills and half the liquor. I watch the pouring dark rain, like mascara mixed tears racing down the black cheeks of the sky. A sight I've seen too many times on the person people expect me to love.
There is no such thing as unconditional love if you tell us that everything comes to an end. I stopped living but am somehow still breathing. I'm stuck in the hole without an exit, just waiting for my death.
"You can end life but you can't start it. Be careful to press pause because you will not be able to press play again."
That's what he said, my seventh psychologist, but really I just sat there, waiting for him to give me the prescription for my new pills. Like I would kill myself when I can spend my next seventy years in a drugged daze. But for some reason, those stupid words stuck. Maybe that's why am still alive, because I'm afraid I'll regret it when it's to late. I seriously doubt that. I'm probably just too weak and fixed by the thought of going out in glory. Can you hire someone to crash their car into yours? That'd be perfect.
The Kentucky rain keeps coming, hiding the sunrise for a few more minutes than it was supposed to. I say that alot. Supposed. It should have been but it isn't. Story of my life. I'm supposed to love the 'fantastic loving girl', my father's words, not mine, that I'm together with, I'm supposed to have my life together by the age of thirty-two that I just passed and I'm supposed to be happy with life but I'm not. No one ever gave me a reason to not be, it just kind of creeped up on me like that hated mosquito in a dark room.
The darker thoughts always kept coming at me like a broken record until I gave after and drowned them away with alcohol for the very first time. After that she found me there on the floor, those weeks ago, covered in my own tears, snot and vomit. She cried with me but I didn't want her there, it's like a stranger on your mother's funeral. Cold, weird and uncomfortable are a few words to describe it. Evidence that there is life outside of your own little world. It was the start of countless meetings with psychologic people, some actually talking from experience, some just doing their job. Nevertheless, it never helped. I never looked at the people outside of their offices, never pondered over what problems they might have. No, I just did my mission, my chore. I walked in, sat through the half hour long session, got my pills, put on a fake sincere smile and promised to not overdose, walked out of there, called a taxi, got home, downed the pills and alcohol and the cycle restarted with the occational make up sex with her for her to not leave me. I need her to come crawling back to. As I said, I stopped living a long time ago. After I met her. Let's call her Emma.
It never was her fault, really. No, it is all me. You know how they say that a sip is good but too much is bad for you? Yeah that happend to me. I just got too much time with myself, I spent too long with the narcessistic, sarcastic, self-destructive part of me and eventually the creature took over. The creature we all have inside us, howling, screaming to get out. The cause of all those depressed-teenager-songs and why they become so popular. It's not a phase, it's a stage of weakness and a time that the creature uses to it's advantige.
Emma tried to save me, she blamed herself. She cuts but I can't really feel bad for her, even when I know it's my fault. She stays with me, I'm the flame to her moth. I kill her, but she can't stay away. I use her, her money, her love, her house, her sex, and she knows it. We are both aware of the fact that she's only there because I need someome to crawl back to when I once again fail to be alive. In all honesty, I don't know why she stays. All I know is that I wouldn't.
Never in a millions years.
\\Note//
So this is something I wrote a while ago,
It's actually more depressing than I intended to,
But that's cool I guess.
Avoiding Monsters will be updated as usual.
This chapter is not edited,
It's raw, just like I wanted it to
When I wrote it.
Okay.
Kbyheee
XXSilverXX
YOU ARE READING
Let's Call Her Emma
ContoThis is a short story, since no other words need to be said. It's a look into his mind, just for a few minutes, but that's all you need to know, and all he needs to show. Emma matters, who else would he lean on? Yet, he can't bring himself to care f...
