Don't Let Me Remember

Chapter One: How To Cope

I curse at the computer screen for what seems like the 100th time. All my work that I had saved had been deleted. I feel myself sink in my rolly computer chair, the feeling of self hatred and self guilt sink in with me.

It was a few months ago, maybe 2, maybe 3, I don't keep up with the dates anymore. All I know is when. I know when it happened, June 16th, but I don't know how many days have passed since that fateful day.

My breathing becomes shallow and my heart beat quickens. I arise from my chair and run to the bathroom, my forehead now the home of minuscule sweat particles as I throw open the mirror cabinet and throw back 3 Xanax and a few OxyContins, trying to rid myself of the feeling of regret, the feeling of hatred. Trying to erase the memory.

I remember the smell of the air when I walked out that day for work. I remember the way the atmosphere felt as I walked into the morgue, the thickness that I brushed off. The way it felt like something bad was going to happen. Don't get me wrong, it was a gorgeous day with the sun shining, the birds chirping, and a soft wind that would sometimes brush against my face. Just had the aroma of destruction.

I messaged her a few times though out the day, to no response. I then got worried and starting calling, to no avail. After a conversation with her mother, I decided that I had to go check on her. She wasn't answering anyone and it was making her mother, as well as myself, very anxious. I remember driving to her home, my fingers popping her hair tie on my wrist, I remember running my hand through my hair, trying to calm down. I remember pulling into the driveway and bouncing up to the door, hoping and thinking that the only reason she didn't answer was from passing out from pills, or that she was just sleeping away the night before.

I grip the sink until my knuckles are almost popping out of my skin. I down a couple more Xanax, but I realize that trying to keep myself in a decent state of mind is like trying to freeze the Atlantic Ocean with a single ice cube.

I remember walking into the door and looking at her, how beautiful she was. The way her long, wavy, black hair was flowing behind her. The way her eyes were fixated on nothingness. The way the black top I had gotten her complimented her body, the way the ruffles covered the scars on her chest. I remember the way I held her cold, lifeless hand, and how I gripped the ring I had given her so many years ago. I remember hugging her like she was alive, hugging her like I could feel her heartbeat still, like there was blood still pumping through those veins. I remember falling to my knees, clenching the hem of her pants leg, before falling sideways into a crying heap.

I look up into the mirror, studying my motions, taking deep breaths instead of my previous quick and shallow breaths. I look at the shell of the man I once was. I look at the shell that was once an athlete, that once was able to do anything and everything. I look at the overgrown 5-o'clock shadow I have acquired from carelessness. I look at the dark, mangled mess of hair that's perched on top of my head, how greasy it is and how if I wanted I could cook anything with the grease that's on my head. I look at the body that was once a solid state, a solid 240 pounds packed with muscle, that has since dropped to 150 skin, bones, and organs. I look into the faded green eyes that used to be a half decent man, that used to be full of life and excitement that is now filled with remorse. I look at the man that I used to call Chris Smith, who I now call The Demon.

I pop 4 Loritabs, not to get high, but to rid myself of the feeling of guilt and regret and anguish. To ruin my pity party for a moment of peaceful sleep. To be the death of me.

I stumble into the dining room where the landline phone is, and I clumsily fall into an old, creaky, wooden chair, before grabbing the silver phone, rolling my fingers over the plastic numbers as I type in a phone number all too familiar to me.