Old demons lurked in my window from time to time, scratching their nails down the glass of my mental defenses anytime they saw a moment of weakness. No matter how tightly I'd try to close the blinds, I couldn't shield myself from the blinding rays of memories that tried to hide in the morning sun. The more I'd give in to feeling the memories on my skin, over-processed with too much Sodium ethyl para-hydroxybenzoate and titanium dioxide to give it any sustenance, the more my skin would burn from exposure, and my defenses eaten up. Sitting in the dark corners of my heart, drenched in years of tears, they had little ability to keep fungal infections away.
Eventually I would have to retreat to a room in my house with no windows. I had dealt with the freezing winds of negativity from past visitors, but even the work by a professional couldn't stop everything from sneaking it's way into my house. The further I retreated inside in hopes of getting away, the closer I'd get to the room I couldn't manage to completely fix up.
The floorboards creaked with words I screamed at the imaginary you over the years, unsteady under my feet and ready to splinter. The wallpaper littering the floor, stripped from the time we were redecorating, now made the austere room match what I had left of us: tattered scraps. The paint cans once-filled of childhood promises were dried up and turned over, the paintbrushes glued to the insides, telling me how I could never use those colors again unless I bought a new can. But that brand wasn't sold anymore and I was terrified of getting too attached to another, in case that production company bankrupted, too.
An old, beat up mattress was all that was left from the up-all-night-sleepovers. Tiny bits of popcorn decomposed, staining the worn out cushion. The rusty springs could no longer support another night. I sat there anyway, taking a look around the place. Perfectly lined picture frames sat on a small chest of drawers against the wall to my left. As I got closer to inspect, I could see how the colors had faded away as if left in the sun. The one empty frame on the end had always haunted me. The single time I hadn't completely been there for you. Had that been it? Had that been the moment you decided to kill us slowly until we were left to rot on the gravel road I used to walk across to get to your house? Did I cause it?
I was still certified in CPR, I believed I could have kept us going until the ambulance arrived. Thirty beats of after-school hangouts and two, two-second "I love you"s. Tilt the chin back in between each to allow the air to flow to the lungs easier, or something like that. Ah, ah, ah, ah
We weren't staying alive.
The EKG screamed at me after rushing to the hospital for the second time this month. But instead of trying to heal my own wounds, I desperately applied "I'm sorry"s over the gashes in your chest, where any life you had towards us drained out quickly. You weren't even trying anymore. You turned down the life support and instead subjected me to a long, torturously painful death.
I tried burying you out back by the shed, but when that burned down and I'd come outside to dig up fleeting moments of happiness, my shovel would stab at your casket. But the mahogany would keep me from seeing your putrid view of our friendship at the end, reminding me that I would spend an eternity trying to decipher the cause of death. I had built that shed up in a new corner of the yard, strong and more weather-resistant now, but away from the ashes of its old resting place in my yard. I had decided I didn't want old memories fading away at the bright, fresh coat of paint. But I couldn't figure out how to make flowers grow over you, the way I did with the old shed's resting place. I couldn't figure out how to make the hurt into something I could deal with. My only alternative was to plant dandelions, let the ground fall to the weeds, at least it would keep me away from the spot.
Eventually I would be able to put a lock on the chest drawers. Until then, I studied over the few remaining contents: an old pair of drumsticks, an empty box of Totino's frozen pizza, a butterfly knife, and our Dear Bran Flakes letter.
Dear Bran Flakes, we will explain later why we are calling you Bran Flakes but...
I couldn't remember anything past the hours of laughter shared, and I was too tired to sit in that room any longer. The sun wasn't shining anymore, and instead, heavy rain fell, luring me back to bed. Other warm, happy memories completely unrelated snuggled up around me, and I could finally relax for a while.
But fuck you for leaving me when I fucking needed you.
