The Secret To New York (Boyxboy)

Chapter 18- A short monologue from Zander

This chapter is super short, but it's suppoed to be, so yeah

Chapter 18- A short monologue from Zander

It felt like I was trapped. There was a huge deciding factor; could I get out of this one? And, no, I couldn't. My dad was getting out of prison; my mom had just hit me. Hard. She promised me back when my dad used to hit me that she'd never put her hands on me, And, yes it was wimpy indeed to cry and run away after being slapped, but she broke her promise. And she was so angry at me, and I couldn't help it. I couldn't help but speak my mind, because if I didn't, nothing would be different. I'd sit there in silence, taking the abuse. Hit after hit. I'd worked my whole life trying to make myself into something more than a bruised and battered kid.

There was nothing left of my life. I had adequate grades, and I understood the material, but I couldn't really see myself putting any of it to good use. Yes I could do math, but no, I couldn't see myself paying taxes. Yes I could read and write, but no, I couldn't see myself becoming and editor or an author. I used to want to be a writer. I used to write tiny stories about our neighbors dog going on adventures in the forest behind the neighborhood. But, I realized to become a great writer; you need two very important things I'd never obtain. One, experience. And two, skill. I hated the truth that rang in those thoughts. It ate up my insides, it ruined my potential. And say maybe I did have talent, but my mind was too fucked up to realize.

I'm fucked up. Another huge deciding factor. I didn't know what was real anymore. I couldn't distinguish reality from my imagination. Slowly, over the years, I've noticed that not only are there imaginary words popping into my ears, but images. And, to me, imagery was huge. If you could see something, why not believe in it? Like how I saw me. I saw my body. I saw it for what I thought it was. Fat, ugly, too much fat, too much ugly. I'd try to cover it up with layers of clothes, even on hot summery days. I'd wear makeup, fucking makeup. I used to buy cover up online for my skin. I never left the contours of my room without it plastered on my face.

Now, I don't, because I'm going to die anyway, and I just stopped caring about that, but my hairs thinning, and I never eat anything. I've eaten more this week than I have in three years actually, and while that should be very surprising and great for someone else, for me it was like a punch in the gut. I was getting fat again, and no one could even tell me that I wasn't gaining weight, because I felt the bulge again and if I could jump up and down, I could feel the food in my stomach, just sitting there, turning into fat, so I'd either puke or exercise until I couldn't feel it anymore. But, I haven't even thought if it, and that's the bad part. I measure my body, and I got and inch bigger around my waist.

But, after all of that, the part that made me want to keep fighting. Shane. My boyfriend, my love. He made everything okay, when I was with him. I loved him, and he loved me, and with that, we created this perfect little cocoon of warmth and love and we'd both survive, but where was he when I needed him? He wasn't here with me, and I didn't know what was worse. Knowing that I could call on him and he'd be right here alongside me, or that I was actually leaving him alone in this fucked up world.

I didn't have any fight left in me, even if he could pull me out of this depression, I would be better off dead, because I couldn't pretend anymore. I couldn't walk around among these gray faces in this huge gray city and pretend to be anything else but blue. I'd frown, and I'd cry and I'd die more and more inside with every look in the mirror, ever bite of food, every day spent in bed, every moment I woke up, every moment I lied asleep in bed, I'd think of all of the wrong things in my life, and I'd over analyze and I'd over think. I'd think about my dad and the bullying and the fat and the abuse and the crying and the cutting and everything else, and I'd started to overthink about the bad outweighing the good and I'd cry and get pulled into this blackness no one would ever hear of, and Shane would have to see me cry and shrivel up into nothing more than a skeleton and a bad memory like a stain on his heart, and it would hurt him inside and it would hurt me more inside than anything had ever hurt me.

I didn't want to put us both through that pain. So here I stood. At the top of the bridge. Below, I could hear the cars zooming past. I could hear honks I could hear bells from bikers ringing. I could see the skyline, I could see the bustling sidewalks I could smell burnt rubber and pizza and sub-sandwiches and some far away smell I'd never discover. I could feel the wind, so liberating against my skin, I could see the oncoming gray storm clouds moving to tower over the city. I could sense my life coming to a close, and I could finally breathe. I could finally rest. I could finally smile a little. Because this was peace at its finest. And it was the things I was letting go of. I wasn't stressed, I wasn't angry, I wasn't sad because nothing mattered. Nothing could reach me, I was so high.

I let go, I took my last breath, turned around, and in one swift movement, I fell backwards. The slip of my feet, the wind whooshing past me. The racing adrenaline. It was all over, it was all done. I was gone. Memory. The next thing I knew, I'd be six feet under the ground. Only my dead bones to keep my head company and tell me what the world thinks.

My only regret? Leaving Shane. My Shane.

~ how'd I do???? I think I just like writing depressing shit mannn. So, yeah, suspense, again. Well, not really, but yeah. Never couple chaoters WILL be Shane's P.O.V. So, with that in mind, bye.